I can’t figure out if she wants to come over to escape her place, or because she wants to be with me, but in either case, I’m all for it. “Of course. Sure.”
She smiles her thanks and ducks to keep eating. I can’t really look away. Out in the sun it’s obvious that London put some effort into how she looks today: she’s wearing a little makeup. Her hair is brushed and smooth. She even painted her nails.
“London?” I ask.
She looks up and I realize I have no idea how to ask her what I want to ask her. Why are you so dressed up? sounds kind of douchey and may imply I think she usually looks less than perfect, which is totally false.
“What?” she asks when I’ve been silently staring at her for too long.
“You look really pretty today.”
She scoffs, smiling into her sandwich. “Shut up.”
“No, you really do. You’re not going to meet some guy after this, are you?” I ask, trying to give her a winning smile.
Laughing, she says, “No.”
“A girl, then? I’m cool with switch hitters, but when you look like this, I want you all for myself.”
Her smile is enormous, but it’s gone in a flash. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and pretend to scowl down at her lunch when she whispers, “You’re an idiot.”
Harlow returns, dropping her phone into her purse. “Never marry a fisherman,” she tells me.
I laugh. “Noted.”
“They’re too sexy for their own good and you’ll end up spending your entire paycheck on a last-minute ticket.”
I look back and forth between London and Harlow before saying, “I’m confused. You have to fly to see your husband?”
“When he’s filming,” she says, and then takes an enormous bite of sandwich. It feels like it takes her three years to finish chewing and swallow before she explains, “He’s one of the Fisher Men.”
I slap the table. “Shut up. I can’t wait for that show. Even the promotion is making me feel manly. Wait.” I pause. “You’re married to one of them?” London is shooting me a warning look but I’m too dense to pick up on it right away. “They’re all single.”
“No, they aren’t,” Harlow says with an edge, and when I look up at London, she quickly tucks away a smile.
Harlow and I catch up on the past few years and then begin stumbling down memory lane. London listens, smiling and laughing at the stories—she didn’t grow up with us so she couldn’t possibly understand the insanity that was Harlow, Lola, and Mia together since elementary school.
“Luke,” Harlow sings, shaking her head, “what would we have done without you back then?”
“Luke was your go-to?” London asks. She’s a little skeptical, but mostly fascinated, and fuck, I could kiss Harlow right now. How did she know this was exactly what London needed?
“Oh,” Harlow says, holding up a hand. “You have no idea. This poor guy. Before we would call our parents we would call Luke. He drove before any of us, and took us everywhere. He rescued the three of us more times than I can remember.”
I laugh, because it’s true. The girls got locked out of buildings naked I think more than any other humans on the planet, punctured two tires on Mia’s piece-of-shit Geo Tracker when they decided to try offroading in the San Bernardinos—hours away from home—and needed me to come get them in Big Bear one night when they’d tried to go camping and had forgotten the tent, had no money for a motel, and Harlow got food poisoning.
They were put in charge of the prom committee senior year—and it’s a miracle the entire school didn’t end up getting arrested for public indecency, but when the cops came, I made sure they knew it wasn’t Harlow who had spiked the punch.
I knew the best way to sneak Mia in and out of her house—not just for fooling around, but to drive her down to the beach and watch her dance at sunrise.
I drove Lola to her evening art class every Tuesday and Thursday night after I got my license.
I would have done anything for those girls, and I did.
I still would.
Harlow and I go from fuming together over something horribly condescending Mia’s dad said to her about dancing, to wheezing in laughter, remembering Lola’s three-legged Humper Dog that would literally have sex with any vertical limb in close proximity. The girls once playfully held me down to see what would happen if we let him go—trust me, at fifteen I was fine being pinned to the couch by three girls—and the dog eventually just peed on my leg.
All through it, though, London stays pretty quiet, and I’m inclined to not push her about it. I mean, I’m not an idiot; the way she’s looking intently at me every few seconds makes me think she’s probably mulling over what’s happening between us, and her being here—with lunch, all dressed up—has to be a good sign.
But inside, I feel tense, wanting to be alone with her to talk it out—to talk about us and make sure she’s really okay, to discuss the prospect of me moving in a few months—but knowing there is no way I can push the conversation yet again. For the first time in our . . . relationship . . . I have to wait for her to come to me.
* * *
LONDON IS ON my porch when I get home, clutching her bag. Before I even reach the top step, she’s speaking.
“I just got here. I haven’t been waiting—”
“I wish you would lie to me sometimes,” I grumble, teasing. “I like the idea of you hanging out, anxiously pining for me.”
Her hand lightly slaps my shoulder as I bend to unlock the front door.
“Want something to drink?” I ask her over my shoulder, dropping my keys, wallet, and phone on the counter.
“A beer?”
I can feel her behind me, looking around before following me into the kitchen. She’s quiet as I open the fridge, reach for a bottle, and pop it open for her.
Turning with her drink in my hand, I immediately run into her. She’s there—right there—chest now pressed to my arm.
I smile, but it feels badly shaped, wobbly. “Hey.”
Her tongue slips out, wetting her lips. “Hey.”
She stares at me, studying, and in an instant I realize she’s working up the nerve to start something. But I’m still wary enough to never want to make that bet. Maybe she changed her mind and doesn’t want a beer. Maybe she wants to add a snack to her order. Maybe—
Her hand comes up from her side, moving up my chest and around to cup the back of my neck.
“London?”
She pulls, stretching at the same time, covering my mouth with hers.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The relief, the soft feel of her, the slide, the sweetness. Her full lips move over mine, sucking at the bottom, coaxing me open, and my pulse explodes. Her tongue licks my lip, my top teeth. I feel when she moans before I hear it.
My heart is a fucking monster in my chest, claws thrashing.
I pull back, on that razor-sharp edge of ecstasy and heartbreak, needing to know which way I’ll slide. “Are you . . . ?” I don’t even know how to end the sentence. I don’t want this to be a rash impulse of hers.
I’m settled here, in love with her; I couldn’t weather a drive-by.
“Just kiss me?” she whispers.
Her fingers tangle in the hair at the back of my head and she stretches, trailing kisses up my chin. Soft, hesitant kisses to convince me, to coax me some more. Once I force my eyes open, I see that she’s watching me nervously. As if I might say no. The vulnerability there . . . I am fucking done.