Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 54
I turn around, and the woman standing in front of me is so out of context here that it takes my brain at least two full seconds to place her.
“Harlow? What th—?”
“Surprise!” She throws her arms out. “Happy to see me?”
I glance over my shoulder to London, confused. “Um, is this an ambush of some form?”
“I asked London to lunch,” Harlow says. “And . . . then I suggested we have lunch with you.”
I wait, brows lifted in expectation, before I slide my gaze over to London, hoping for some form of silent communication.
Is this cool?
London gives me a tiny smile, a barely perceptible nod.
I can only assume that there’s been a conversation I haven’t been privy to, and that maybe this is Harlow’s way of reaching out, letting London know that this is okay. I walk over, still confused and also totally thrilled—I spent nearly every weekend from the age of eleven to nineteen with this woman—and give her a hug. Harlow squeezes me tight, and I get a face full of her auburn hair.
“Holy shit, you’re still using that herby shampoo,” I say, filled with an unexpected wave of nostalgia.
When she steps back, Harlow purses her lips at me. “It’s Aveda, you plebeian.”
“You smell like a commune.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “My husband likes it.”
“Or he’s just too terrified of you to say anything.”
A delighted giggle escapes her lips. “You clearly haven’t met Finn.”
With a lingering smile, Harlow turns, walking over to the picnic table where London is now waiting and has spread out a crazy amount of food: sandwiches, a few deli salads, olives, chips, and sparkling waters.
I look up at her, quietly telling her, “This looks amazing.”
She blushes again—sweet Lord, what is up with that?—and then meets my eyes. “Good. This was sort of Harlow’s idea—”
“I wanted to bring you peanut butter and jelly, but London insisted we stop and pick up something nicer. She might be too good for you,” Harlow says, and I have to restrain myself from hugging her again.
I look back and forth between the two of them. “So what brought this on? Are you buttering me up for a Harlow tongue-lashing?”
“Keep up, Luke. If I wanted to rip you a new one I’d have done it already,” Harlow says, picking up a sandwich and examining it.
“Right,” I say, and pick up a sandwich of my own.
“We had a nice long talk yesterday and London mentioned it was possible that I was a little out of line. I thought about it and decided she was right. Case closed. Now, whether you’re actually worthy of Miss All-American over here,” she says, nodding toward London. “That remains to be seen.”
I look over at London, who seems to be doing everything she can to avoid eye contact with me. Confident that Harlow isn’t here to neuter me, I say, “Harlow, you saw me with Mia every day for years. You already know whether or not I’m worthy.”
She nods, popping an olive into her mouth. “I’m trying to do the grand gesture here, Luke. I don’t remember you being this slow on the uptake.”
I want to volley back with something similarly playful, but I’m so grateful to Harlow in this moment that I can’t seem to conjure up more than a grin aimed in her direction.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Harlow is a bit of a bulldozer,” London explains, smiling down at the table. She pulls the top off a container of salad, and sticks a fork in it. “Sorry. Already has the dressing on,” she jokes under her breath.
“I’ll persevere,” I answer, intentionally touching her hand when she slides it over to me. She went head-to-head with Harlow over this. For me. I may need a few minutes to process that.
As if on instinct, London looks up, widening her eyes in a Be cool gesture before returning to unwrapping her sandwich.
Harlow watches the exchange with interest. “I miss you, Luker. We all do.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I trail off. I mean, honestly, there’s so much. We were all so close. Mia, Harlow, and Lola were like family to me, and although we all tried to keep up appearances after Mia’s accident, our relationships just crumbled. For a couple of years, it was hard not to feel resentful that the friendships with her girlfriends never suffered from whatever it was she was going through. But years later, I know no one is to blame. “I missed you, too.”
“Seems like you managed okay,” she says, and I can’t exactly read her tone. Is she referring to my lack of monogamy? Is she being genuine and telling me I look good? Does she mean London? With Harlow, I always assume there is a layer of shit being given; the question is always how deep I need to look to see it.
“So what’s up with everyone getting married all of a sudden?” I ask her. “You guys have a few days out of college and freak out that you’re going to be spinsters, or what?”
She shrugs. “Guess we just found the one.”
When I glance to her again, London begins intensively studying her Pellegrino label. She’s being oddly quiet.
“I hear you’re headed to law school,” Harlow says, drawing my attention back to her.
“That’s right.”
“Personally I think it would be amazing if you ended up at UCSD, and—”
“And Ansel was my professor?” I finish for her, smiling. “Yeah, you’re not alone there. Margot prays for it daily.”
“It would be the most awkward.”
“I actually don’t think it would be that bad.” She raises her eyebrows at this. “Ansel seems like a pretty great guy.”
Harlow goes quiet, so I know I’ve surprised her by reiterating this, even when Mia isn’t here and I’d otherwise be free to let loose the honest opinion.
“Unfortunately I don’t think it’s going to happen,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on, Luke,” Harlow says. “You know you’ll get into UCSD.”
“I already have,” I say, glancing briefly at London. I haven’t mentioned any of this yet. I haven’t wanted to bring it up because it just seems so . . . serious. “What I meant is that I probably won’t accept the offer from UCSD. I got into Boalt. I’m still waiting to hear from Yale, but most likely I’m headed to Berkeley.”
London’s head shoots up. “What?”
Guilt cools my bloodstream. “Yeah, I heard back from a few places last week.”
“Holy shit, that’s ama—” Harlow’s phone rings in her purse and she digs for it, squealing when she looks at the screen and excusing herself to answer the call.
“Hey, weirdo,” I whisper-hiss to London. When she looks up, I continue: “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why are you so quiet today?”
“I had sort of a mini-meltdown when I got home last night. Harlow was there, we had a little talk, and here we are.”
I frown and I reach for her hand. “I’m glad—thrilled, actually—but that’s not what I meant. Are you okay today?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking about wha—”
“Would it be okay if I came over tonight?” she asks, finally holding my gaze.
“Tonigh—?”
“I’d invite you to my place,” she quickly cuts in, “but Lola left this morning so I’m having the paint redone and the entire loft reeks.”
“Harlow? What th—?”
“Surprise!” She throws her arms out. “Happy to see me?”
I glance over my shoulder to London, confused. “Um, is this an ambush of some form?”
“I asked London to lunch,” Harlow says. “And . . . then I suggested we have lunch with you.”
I wait, brows lifted in expectation, before I slide my gaze over to London, hoping for some form of silent communication.
Is this cool?
London gives me a tiny smile, a barely perceptible nod.
I can only assume that there’s been a conversation I haven’t been privy to, and that maybe this is Harlow’s way of reaching out, letting London know that this is okay. I walk over, still confused and also totally thrilled—I spent nearly every weekend from the age of eleven to nineteen with this woman—and give her a hug. Harlow squeezes me tight, and I get a face full of her auburn hair.
“Holy shit, you’re still using that herby shampoo,” I say, filled with an unexpected wave of nostalgia.
When she steps back, Harlow purses her lips at me. “It’s Aveda, you plebeian.”
“You smell like a commune.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “My husband likes it.”
“Or he’s just too terrified of you to say anything.”
A delighted giggle escapes her lips. “You clearly haven’t met Finn.”
With a lingering smile, Harlow turns, walking over to the picnic table where London is now waiting and has spread out a crazy amount of food: sandwiches, a few deli salads, olives, chips, and sparkling waters.
I look up at her, quietly telling her, “This looks amazing.”
She blushes again—sweet Lord, what is up with that?—and then meets my eyes. “Good. This was sort of Harlow’s idea—”
“I wanted to bring you peanut butter and jelly, but London insisted we stop and pick up something nicer. She might be too good for you,” Harlow says, and I have to restrain myself from hugging her again.
I look back and forth between the two of them. “So what brought this on? Are you buttering me up for a Harlow tongue-lashing?”
“Keep up, Luke. If I wanted to rip you a new one I’d have done it already,” Harlow says, picking up a sandwich and examining it.
“Right,” I say, and pick up a sandwich of my own.
“We had a nice long talk yesterday and London mentioned it was possible that I was a little out of line. I thought about it and decided she was right. Case closed. Now, whether you’re actually worthy of Miss All-American over here,” she says, nodding toward London. “That remains to be seen.”
I look over at London, who seems to be doing everything she can to avoid eye contact with me. Confident that Harlow isn’t here to neuter me, I say, “Harlow, you saw me with Mia every day for years. You already know whether or not I’m worthy.”
She nods, popping an olive into her mouth. “I’m trying to do the grand gesture here, Luke. I don’t remember you being this slow on the uptake.”
I want to volley back with something similarly playful, but I’m so grateful to Harlow in this moment that I can’t seem to conjure up more than a grin aimed in her direction.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Harlow is a bit of a bulldozer,” London explains, smiling down at the table. She pulls the top off a container of salad, and sticks a fork in it. “Sorry. Already has the dressing on,” she jokes under her breath.
“I’ll persevere,” I answer, intentionally touching her hand when she slides it over to me. She went head-to-head with Harlow over this. For me. I may need a few minutes to process that.
As if on instinct, London looks up, widening her eyes in a Be cool gesture before returning to unwrapping her sandwich.
Harlow watches the exchange with interest. “I miss you, Luker. We all do.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I trail off. I mean, honestly, there’s so much. We were all so close. Mia, Harlow, and Lola were like family to me, and although we all tried to keep up appearances after Mia’s accident, our relationships just crumbled. For a couple of years, it was hard not to feel resentful that the friendships with her girlfriends never suffered from whatever it was she was going through. But years later, I know no one is to blame. “I missed you, too.”
“Seems like you managed okay,” she says, and I can’t exactly read her tone. Is she referring to my lack of monogamy? Is she being genuine and telling me I look good? Does she mean London? With Harlow, I always assume there is a layer of shit being given; the question is always how deep I need to look to see it.
“So what’s up with everyone getting married all of a sudden?” I ask her. “You guys have a few days out of college and freak out that you’re going to be spinsters, or what?”
She shrugs. “Guess we just found the one.”
When I glance to her again, London begins intensively studying her Pellegrino label. She’s being oddly quiet.
“I hear you’re headed to law school,” Harlow says, drawing my attention back to her.
“That’s right.”
“Personally I think it would be amazing if you ended up at UCSD, and—”
“And Ansel was my professor?” I finish for her, smiling. “Yeah, you’re not alone there. Margot prays for it daily.”
“It would be the most awkward.”
“I actually don’t think it would be that bad.” She raises her eyebrows at this. “Ansel seems like a pretty great guy.”
Harlow goes quiet, so I know I’ve surprised her by reiterating this, even when Mia isn’t here and I’d otherwise be free to let loose the honest opinion.
“Unfortunately I don’t think it’s going to happen,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on, Luke,” Harlow says. “You know you’ll get into UCSD.”
“I already have,” I say, glancing briefly at London. I haven’t mentioned any of this yet. I haven’t wanted to bring it up because it just seems so . . . serious. “What I meant is that I probably won’t accept the offer from UCSD. I got into Boalt. I’m still waiting to hear from Yale, but most likely I’m headed to Berkeley.”
London’s head shoots up. “What?”
Guilt cools my bloodstream. “Yeah, I heard back from a few places last week.”
“Holy shit, that’s ama—” Harlow’s phone rings in her purse and she digs for it, squealing when she looks at the screen and excusing herself to answer the call.
“Hey, weirdo,” I whisper-hiss to London. When she looks up, I continue: “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why are you so quiet today?”
“I had sort of a mini-meltdown when I got home last night. Harlow was there, we had a little talk, and here we are.”
I frown and I reach for her hand. “I’m glad—thrilled, actually—but that’s not what I meant. Are you okay today?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking about wha—”
“Would it be okay if I came over tonight?” she asks, finally holding my gaze.
“Tonigh—?”
“I’d invite you to my place,” she quickly cuts in, “but Lola left this morning so I’m having the paint redone and the entire loft reeks.”
