She pulls her finger free, and touches the tip of my chin. “Like I want to shove you in my face but I worry I’ll feel awful afterward.” London scrunches up her nose in adorable frustration but then sighs, leaning into me.
So she means pretty much exactly what I thought. I close my eyes again, jaw tight, trying to ignore the visceral pull I feel when she’s this close, and instead let the anger and hurt boil up and out.
She wants me but will feel awful afterward.
I’m not only unhealthy, I’m regrettable.
“London?”
“Hmm?”
I move her off my lap and stand, looking down at her. “That comparison makes me feel like shit.”
She seems to realize exactly what she’s said, and her face falls. “No. Luke—”
“I haven’t been with anyone else. I want to be with you all the fucking time. I told you I love you, and you call me junk food? How is this any different than Daniel referring to girls as snacks?”
She stares up at me, surprise melting into regret. “You’re right, it’s not,” she says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you think it.”
“Luke.”
She can say my name as many times as she wants but fuck this. I stand and brush the sand from my shorts, grabbing my board before I start to walk away. A hand wrapped around my forearm stops me, pulls me around to face her.
“I already don’t trust my judgment and now I’m falling for the most terrifying person possible,” she says. “You know why you missed my texts last night? Because they were buried in there with twenty other messages. You think I don’t realize that? How many women texted you last night, Luke? Forty? More? You used to bang anything with a pussy.”
She jolts, like her using such words surprised her, too. Which only makes me wonder how long they’ve been simmering just below the surface.
I hesitate, scowling at her even though I know exactly how right she is. I want to tell her she’s a pain in the ass, has no idea what the fuck is going on here or what I’m doing with who, but the first words out of my mouth are the most trivial: “Not anything.”
“Fucking hell, Luke.” She runs her hands through her tangled hair and stares up at me, exasperated. “Really?”
Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct—to tell her she’s right, but that isn’t me anymore. “London—”
“Have you considered that the reason you want me is because I’m resisting?” she asks. “Is it the cliché of the challenge? I mean, if we do this, and we’re together—”
“I know how to commit,” I growl. “I know what it looks like.”
“Fine,” she says, low and flat. “But before, Mia was all you knew. Now you’re used to that thrill of discovery, the chase. What if sex between us grows familiar? What if we’re together five years and you get bored? The thought of being with you, and you taking home some other—”
“Stop.”
I turn away. I can’t listen. It reminds me of the betrayal I felt when I slept with Ali. The idea of being with someone else when I could have London, of her being with another guy, actually shoves a spike into my head.
She grabs my arm again. “Stop walking away from me. All I’m saying is it’s hard, okay? I shouldn’t have said what I did back there, but I’m scared.” She takes a step closer, voice quiet when she says, “I’m trying not to be, but I’m terrified of what it could be like with you.”
“God—” I start, squeezing my eyes closed and digging both hands into my hair. I want to focus on what she’s telling me, but my fuse has officially run out. “Don’t you think this is scary for me, too?”
“Luke—”
A wave crashes, and the edge of the surf touches the very tips of our toes. The tide is coming in, and in a dramatic rush I want to see it crash over me. “Don’t you think I’m already in too deep?” I tell her. “If you decide now that we aren’t doing this, it’s going to hurt. But that was true a while ago and I decided to roll with it. I decided you’re worth it. That’s the difference. Fuck, I think I finally figured it out: falling in love isn’t about who makes you feel the best, but who could make you the most miserable if they leave.”
* * *
I HEAR A key in the lock about ten minutes after I get home from work and close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the couch. “No,” I say, and my sister’s response is immediate.
“Yes.”
“I’m not in the mood for this, Margot.”
I hear her drop a bag near the door before she flops on the couch next to me. “What makes you think I’m here to give you shit for something?”
“One, because you’ve been giving me shit for one thing or another my entire life. And two, I had a fight with London and I can only assume that through some form of female telepathy, you’ve found out and are over here to hand me my ass.”
“Wow,” she says.
I tilt my head to look at her. “So I’m wrong?”
“Well . . . no.”
I nod my head and take another pull from my beer.
“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.
I don’t want to deal with it right now.
My fingers seem to move on their own, entering code while my brain races ahead, imagining how this newest illustration will look as a thumbnail next to the others.
Although the film studio has a landing page for the movie adaptation of Razor Fish, the placeholder I set up specifically for Lola’s site with only her name, a short bio, and a registration link has racked up tens of thousands of hits since they started filming. Adding these last details—along with the idea of making the page live—is both thrilling and the slightest bit terrifying.
I absently stir my cereal as I scan the pages again, searching for anything I might have forgotten. After a deep breath of bravery, I call over my shoulder. “Hey, Lola?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you come out here when you’re done? I want to show you something.”
I hear her chair scrape back from the desk, the sound of her feet against the hardwood, and then she’s there, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.
“Hey, sweetie.” She starts to say something more when her gaze flickers up to the screen—I’m still working in the site dashboard so I know it doesn’t look very interesting at the moment, but she sucks in a breath. “Oh my God. Is this the site?”
I’ve shown her various graphics over the last few weeks, had her give me feedback on the layout, and discussed what she wants where, but she hasn’t actually seen anything yet, not all together like this.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Are you ready?”
She nods quickly and takes the seat at my side.
“I think it’s good but if there’s anything you aren’t sure about, or want changed, just let me know.” I’m babbling nervously, but this moment feels so huge to me. “They’re all pretty easy fixes at this point.”
She squeals and claps, holding her breath as I click the home page, and she watches it load for the first time. Lola gasps as a simple Flash image—my initial idea for her site—fills the screen.
“Is that—?” she starts to say, angling my laptop toward her to get a closer look.
It’s one of Lola’s first drawings—from when she was only thirteen or so—of the character who would ultimately become the lead protagonist in her first comic series, Razor Fish. The sketch is simple, almost rudimentary, but as we watch, the penciled black-and-white image slowly morphs into a more complicated one. I hear Lola’s breath catch again as she registers what she’s seeing. Early drafts of her penciled art turn into ink versions, and then various colored images. More and more of her brainstorming panels are revealed, gathering detail as the Flash image accelerates and finally we’re staring at the vivid image the rest of the world has come to know: the current incarnation of Razor, the odd creature she created and who practically explodes from the movie poster.
“Do you like it?” I ask, glancing nervously back at her. My emotions are all over the place right now; I’m not sure what I’d do if she hated it. But I don’t have to worry. Lola’s eyes shine with tears and she leans over, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a tight hug.
“Are you kidding me?” She’s shaking a little and releases me so she can stare at it all over again. “I love it. Where on earth did you get all these? These early ones were all hand-drawn. I didn’t even know I still had them.”
“Your dad kept nearly everything you ever drew, and Oliver managed to dig up a lot of your early digital work,” I tell her. “Seriously, they’re your biggest fanboys. You’d be amazed to see everything they were able to find. I thought it might be cool to see the evolution, I mean Razor’s of course, but also yours as an artist.”
“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, swiping at her cheeks. “Is it done? I mean, can I show Oliver?”
I stand, and gesture for Lola to move into my chair, laptop in front of her. My hands are shaking from her reaction; it was even better than I’d hoped. “Almost. Go ahead and click through all the pages, make sure everything is where you want it,” I tell her, “and we can tweak anything that isn’t perfect. Then all that’s left is migrating it over to the new server and boom, LolaCastle-dot-com is live.”
Lola clicks around for a moment and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you did all this.” She turns and looks up at me. “I’m just . . .” she says, genuinely choked up. “You’re amazing.”
“It was nothing really,” I tell her. And I’m surprised to find—despite my nerves, despite everything that’s going on—that it’s true: working on her site wasn’t just fun, it was satisfying. It gave me an outlet for my feelings I’ve only ever found on a surfboard. “I loved doing it.”
“Which is exactly why you should be doing it for a living,” she says. “I know you love working at Fred’s, and I can’t believe I’m agreeing with your mom here, but God, you’re so fucking talented.”
I sigh. “Remember that guy Oliver gave my info to a while back? The one who asked him about his logo?” I ask, and she nods. “He owns a brewery and they’re opening a new location. I woke up to an email from him with a proposal to build his site, the retail page, and design all the promo materials. It’d be the biggest job I’ve ever done—huge—and I’d probably have to do it full-time to meet his deadline, at least for a while.”
“No more Fred’s?” she asks.
I shrug, wincing. “I’m going to quit Bliss first, but even so, I can’t imagine how I’d make it work.” The idea of not working with Fred makes my heart droop, but the idea of doing this full-time? I can’t even imagine how great that could be.
“Sounds like it could be amazing.”
“Sounds like being a grown-up,” I counter.
She puts her arm around my shoulder again and squeezes. “Imagine all the time that could leave for . . . other things.”
I reach for the laptop and tap a few keys. “I don’t think I’m going to have to worry
about other things for a while.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened yet?”
I feel my shoulders sag with the weight of all that’s happened today, and slide back down to the chair at her side. I tell her everything; about how scared I’ve been to let Luke in, his saying he loved me, about the texts he didn’t see and how I blew up at him this morning. I mean to keep everything matter-of-fact, but my voice comes out thin and wobbly.
Lola makes a tiny sympathetic noise and I look up at her. “Honey,” she says, reaching for my hand, “I think you’re a badass.”
I laugh and wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “What? Why?”
“You put yourself out there. And so did he. You know, Luke was the perfect boyfriend. He was attentive and loyal—then the accident happened and it’s like he and Mia were such different people afterward.”
I nod. I’ve heard some variation of this from almost everyone who knew him back then.
Lola frowns, drawing her finger across a pattern in the tabletop as she continues. “Mia stopped talking and Luke slept with one girl after another, but in a way . . . it’s like they did the same thing. They were both doing what they thought they had to to protect themselves. Something huge changed inside Luke after the accident: he put this wall around himself and wouldn’t let anyone in,” she says, and her thoughtful expression shifts into a smile. “Sound familiar?”
“A little,” I say, bumping her shoulder lightly. “He said falling in love isn’t about who makes you feel the best, but who could make you the most miserable if they leave.” I swipe the side of my hand across my wet cheek. “Which is basically what I told myself every day before I met him.”
“Is that still how you feel?” Lola asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think he really believes it, either.”
Lola toys with a tiny sapphire pendant around her neck that I’m pretty sure was a recent gift from Oliver. “So tell him.”
“It’s so scary,” I say.
Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4) Page 27