“But I did run into Lola earlier, and she mentioned that London came home upset.”
I know London is upset. I’m the reason why she’s upset, and yet hearing it is like a punch to my gut. The thing is, I’m upset, too.
“Right,” I say.
“She didn’t tell me why—I’m not actually sure that Lola knows why, because London isn’t apparently the most forthcoming when it comes to emotions—just that you two had an argument.” I don’t say anything and she continues. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Luke.”
I sigh, knowing I’ll never get out of this. “Sometimes . . . I wish I’d never brought her home.”
Margot stays silent, staring forward at the TV.
“I wish I’d never brought her home and then I’d never know how great she is. I’d never realize that I want someone ballsy and self-sufficient. If I never brought London home that night, I’d never realize that I had it all wrong and Mia was never the girl for me. Ignorance is bliss, right?”
Beside me, my sister sighs. “So let me guess, London is still having some trust issues with Luke the manwhore.”
I press my fists into my eyes until I see nothing but stars. “So even if that’s not me anymore? If I’m not with anyone but London, if I still only want her, I’ll still be branded that forever?”
She tilts her head. “Well, no. Not exactly. But . . . like, how does she know that?”
“Because I told her, that’s why.”
“Okay, but—maybe that’s not actually enough. Doing something is a lot harder than just saying it. She has no idea what you’re doing when you’re gone, or who’s texting you God knows what. I don’t even know, and I’m rude enough to ask.” She stands from the couch and walks over to the front door, where she’s dropped a heavy bag. “And I didn’t actually come over here to lecture you. I came over here to use your washing machine. Playing bossy big sister was just a bonus, I guess.”
I’m silent and she steps up behind me, dropping a kiss to the top of my head.
“I love you,” she says, “but straighten your shit out.”
I have nothing to do but think, and Margot’s words play on a loop in my head. London’s worry that I’m only interested because I think she’s some sort of thing I have to conquer makes me crazy. The thing is, I know myself. I’ve fucked scores of women, but only loved two. When I love, I do it to the center of the earth. To the part that’s liquid, soft, terrifying. I understand why she’s scared, because so am I. Losing Mia was like losing a limb. I had to relearn how to do things without a part of me that had always been there. But I worry that losing London would be like losing something vital, some beating, living part of me.
I can hear Margot crashing around in the laundry room, singing some emo song at the top of her lungs, and as if on cue, my phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of me. With a sigh, I reach for it, unsurprised when the screen lights up immediately, a handful of messages already waiting. There’s one from Dylan asking if I want to go to Comic-Con this summer, but there are a few from girls, too. Some girls I remember, and some I don’t.
I never thought much of all the texts and propositions for booty calls—it was always funny, a bit of a game and easy to ignore—but London was clearly frustrated that I didn’t see her text last night in the sea of notifications, and she’s never even read some of these. What would she think if she saw them? How would she feel? How would I feel? It doesn’t take a genius to know how I’d react if it were London’s phone full of messages from guys—so full that she would miss a message from me in all of the noise—and it’s enough to pull my spine straight and zap any last bit of humor from this whole thing.
This was exactly what Margot meant when she said it wasn’t enough. It’s not enough to tell London I’ve changed. I have to actually show her.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
London
LOLA’S PHONE IS ringing—Lola’s phone is always ringing—and I grab it from the counter, carrying it down the hall. I can hear the familiar scratch of charcoal against paper as I near her open door, and find her hunched over her desk, finishing a sketch she was working on before she ran out for her deadline pick-me-up coffee.
I knock on the wall just outside her door before stepping in and setting her phone down in front of her. “You left this in the kitchen.”
She looks up from her drawing to squint down at the screen and then, deciding to ignore it, looks up at me. Doing a slight double take, Lola pulls off her glasses, whispering a quiet “You okay?”
I nod.
Lola knows that’s not true—I came home from the beach with red eyes, slipped immediately into my pajamas, and have barely said a word since—but she’s rarely one to outright push.
Back in the kitchen, I pour a bowl of cereal and return to my laptop, clicking through each page of Lola’s new website.
It feels a little like someone is sitting on my chest, and my eyes sting, but I’m not letting myself think about my fight with Luke.