Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 59
She slumps against the counter. “The roommate—enjoy the humor here—had the girlfriend over and they were being very loud.”
I scrub my face with a hand. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Margot shakes her head. “Part of me wants to congratulate whoever is in there because that certainly sounded great.”
“Margot. Gross.”
She straightens, pushing past me and opening the cupboard for a glass. “I thought you weren’t hooking up with random girls anymore?”
“Not that it’s your business,” I say, stealing the glass from her and filling it with water. “But London’s in there.”
Her eyes go wide and she considers this for a few seconds in silence before shaking her head and shivering. “I’d be happy for you if I wasn’t still traumatized.” She looks me over. “I mean, gross, Luke. You’re still sweaty.”
“And now we’re both traumatized.” I gulp down the water. “Seriously, though. You don’t even live here anymore.”
Pushing herself up to sit on the counter, she’s now close to eye level with me, and studies me closely. “You look stressed considering . . .”
I don’t really know what to say. If you’d asked me earlier in the day how I wanted today to end, I would have said, “London in my bed” without hesitation. But now I’m just not sure what it means that she’s in my bed.
I want it to mean something.
“It’s nothing,” I say, and when Margot makes an annoyed face, I add, “I worry she’s not really taking this as seriously as I am.”
My sister looks toward the heavens. “Let me enjoy the irony of this for a second.” She inhales deeply, and then exhales. “Man, that’s great.”
Anger rises inside me. “Margot, are you shitting me right now?”
She looks genuinely confused. “Yes? I think so?”
“If I gave you crap for hooking up with however many women you want, you would tear me a new one. If you slept with a different one every night, you would expect me to pat you on the back and tell you I think your commitment to your sexuality is admirable.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to have opinions on my sexuality,” she deadpans.
“Fine, but you’d expect me to accept it, and not judge you.”
She allows this with a tiny nod.
“So why is it different for me?” I ask. “Why can’t I have had some wild oats, and then fall in love without it being ironic when I worry she doesn’t have the same feelings for me?”
“Love?” she repeats, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” I say finally.
Dropping her head, she stares at the floor for several breaths before mumbling, “Wow. Sorry, you’re right. I am happy for you. I’m just tired and grossed out.”
I lean forward and kiss the top of her head. “We’re sleeping now. We’ll be quiet.”
Turning, I walk back down the hall to my bedroom. London is sitting in the middle of the bed, covers pulled over her lap.
I climb under the sheets and try to coax her down beside me but she resists.
“Was there a girl here?” she asks.
Fuck. She heard our voices. Of course she would be suspicious. And fuck. So much for trusting me.
“It’s just Margot,” I assure her. “I didn’t know she was staying here tonight.”
London exhales, nodding, and then lies back down, curling into me.
I know I should be reassured by how easily she melts into my side, by the tiny, sleepy kisses she trails up my neck to my mouth—and I am. But none of this is as easy as I expected it to be when she finally came around. I still have so much trust to build, and London still has so much trust to give me.
Chapter FIFTEEN
London
I WAKE WITH A blanket over my head and a naked chest pressed to my back, bare hips and thighs curled all along mine. My stomach and legs protest at the slightest movement, and I have to stifle a groan as I sit up, carefully extracting myself from the tangle of sheets that seem to barely cling to the bed.
I feel gross: sweaty from exertion and spending the night wrapped around another human being, and sticky from . . . other things.
It’s too early to be up but I need a shower. Luke has barely moved and I tiptoe across the floor and out of his room, down the hall toward the bathroom.
The door closes with a soft click behind me and it feels like I can finally breathe again. Though even that hurts a little, too. I remind myself to congratulate Luke on a job well done . . . later.
The bathroom is large for such a small house—definitely remodeled—and I’m so anxious to clean myself up that I ignore the chilly morning air and jump beneath the spray before it’s even had a chance to heat up.
“Shit,” I squeak, bracing myself against the tile and then melting as the water starts to warm. The last time I was here Luke washed my hair. I think about that as I reach for the same bottle, the scent of his shampoo mixing with steam to fill the shower.
I realize now that that day is when my plan first derailed. I’d tucked Luke into a nice little box, labeled him and written him off as a good time, and thought that was it. He was fun, a way to scratch an itch, but nothing more.
I hadn’t counted on stories about doll salons and shopping with his mother. I hadn’t expected him to be so attentive and charming. I hadn’t expected the sex to be so good in part because he was so genuinely into me. And I never, not in a million years, expected him to say he loved me.
That last one takes me by surprise all over again and I’m momentarily frozen, blinking away the water as it runs down my face. I’m not sure what to do with something like that. Luke is twenty-three and used to fucking whoever he wants. It’s hard to silence the voice telling me he’s simply infatuated. That he’s forgotten how infatuation can feel a lot like love.
I ignore the way the admission twists my stomach and shut off the water, reaching for a towel before climbing out.
The air is cold on my damp skin, and it reminds me of a morning I’d gone to visit Justin our junior year. He’d been up late studying the night before and was asleep when I got there after closing out the late shift at work. I took a shower and wrapped myself in a towel, realizing I’d forgotten my toothbrush. I opened the drawer, thinking I’d just use his. There was a purple toothbrush there, right beside his familiar blue one. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but much later I realized of course it was Ashley’s, the girl he’d been sleeping with for almost two years by then.
That memory circles around in my head as I stand at Luke’s bathroom counter, looking up at my reflection and telling myself for the thousandth time that not every guy is Justin. Luke is not Justin. Not every guy cheats.
It’s just so hard to break the instinct to keep my arms locked over my chest, guarding my heart.
There’s no way I’m looking for Luke’s toothbrush. Instead, I do my best to make some order of my hair and brush my teeth with my finger and a tube of toothpaste on the counter.
With a towel wrapped securely around my body, I open the door, intent on finding my clothes and getting home, maybe even trying to slip out before he wakes up.
But walking down the hall toward the bathroom door is his sister.
“Margot. Hi.”
Margot, the one he was talking to last night. The sister who more than likely spent the night listening to us having sex.
I scrub my face with a hand. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Margot shakes her head. “Part of me wants to congratulate whoever is in there because that certainly sounded great.”
“Margot. Gross.”
She straightens, pushing past me and opening the cupboard for a glass. “I thought you weren’t hooking up with random girls anymore?”
“Not that it’s your business,” I say, stealing the glass from her and filling it with water. “But London’s in there.”
Her eyes go wide and she considers this for a few seconds in silence before shaking her head and shivering. “I’d be happy for you if I wasn’t still traumatized.” She looks me over. “I mean, gross, Luke. You’re still sweaty.”
“And now we’re both traumatized.” I gulp down the water. “Seriously, though. You don’t even live here anymore.”
Pushing herself up to sit on the counter, she’s now close to eye level with me, and studies me closely. “You look stressed considering . . .”
I don’t really know what to say. If you’d asked me earlier in the day how I wanted today to end, I would have said, “London in my bed” without hesitation. But now I’m just not sure what it means that she’s in my bed.
I want it to mean something.
“It’s nothing,” I say, and when Margot makes an annoyed face, I add, “I worry she’s not really taking this as seriously as I am.”
My sister looks toward the heavens. “Let me enjoy the irony of this for a second.” She inhales deeply, and then exhales. “Man, that’s great.”
Anger rises inside me. “Margot, are you shitting me right now?”
She looks genuinely confused. “Yes? I think so?”
“If I gave you crap for hooking up with however many women you want, you would tear me a new one. If you slept with a different one every night, you would expect me to pat you on the back and tell you I think your commitment to your sexuality is admirable.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to have opinions on my sexuality,” she deadpans.
“Fine, but you’d expect me to accept it, and not judge you.”
She allows this with a tiny nod.
“So why is it different for me?” I ask. “Why can’t I have had some wild oats, and then fall in love without it being ironic when I worry she doesn’t have the same feelings for me?”
“Love?” she repeats, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” I say finally.
Dropping her head, she stares at the floor for several breaths before mumbling, “Wow. Sorry, you’re right. I am happy for you. I’m just tired and grossed out.”
I lean forward and kiss the top of her head. “We’re sleeping now. We’ll be quiet.”
Turning, I walk back down the hall to my bedroom. London is sitting in the middle of the bed, covers pulled over her lap.
I climb under the sheets and try to coax her down beside me but she resists.
“Was there a girl here?” she asks.
Fuck. She heard our voices. Of course she would be suspicious. And fuck. So much for trusting me.
“It’s just Margot,” I assure her. “I didn’t know she was staying here tonight.”
London exhales, nodding, and then lies back down, curling into me.
I know I should be reassured by how easily she melts into my side, by the tiny, sleepy kisses she trails up my neck to my mouth—and I am. But none of this is as easy as I expected it to be when she finally came around. I still have so much trust to build, and London still has so much trust to give me.
Chapter FIFTEEN
London
I WAKE WITH A blanket over my head and a naked chest pressed to my back, bare hips and thighs curled all along mine. My stomach and legs protest at the slightest movement, and I have to stifle a groan as I sit up, carefully extracting myself from the tangle of sheets that seem to barely cling to the bed.
I feel gross: sweaty from exertion and spending the night wrapped around another human being, and sticky from . . . other things.
It’s too early to be up but I need a shower. Luke has barely moved and I tiptoe across the floor and out of his room, down the hall toward the bathroom.
The door closes with a soft click behind me and it feels like I can finally breathe again. Though even that hurts a little, too. I remind myself to congratulate Luke on a job well done . . . later.
The bathroom is large for such a small house—definitely remodeled—and I’m so anxious to clean myself up that I ignore the chilly morning air and jump beneath the spray before it’s even had a chance to heat up.
“Shit,” I squeak, bracing myself against the tile and then melting as the water starts to warm. The last time I was here Luke washed my hair. I think about that as I reach for the same bottle, the scent of his shampoo mixing with steam to fill the shower.
I realize now that that day is when my plan first derailed. I’d tucked Luke into a nice little box, labeled him and written him off as a good time, and thought that was it. He was fun, a way to scratch an itch, but nothing more.
I hadn’t counted on stories about doll salons and shopping with his mother. I hadn’t expected him to be so attentive and charming. I hadn’t expected the sex to be so good in part because he was so genuinely into me. And I never, not in a million years, expected him to say he loved me.
That last one takes me by surprise all over again and I’m momentarily frozen, blinking away the water as it runs down my face. I’m not sure what to do with something like that. Luke is twenty-three and used to fucking whoever he wants. It’s hard to silence the voice telling me he’s simply infatuated. That he’s forgotten how infatuation can feel a lot like love.
I ignore the way the admission twists my stomach and shut off the water, reaching for a towel before climbing out.
The air is cold on my damp skin, and it reminds me of a morning I’d gone to visit Justin our junior year. He’d been up late studying the night before and was asleep when I got there after closing out the late shift at work. I took a shower and wrapped myself in a towel, realizing I’d forgotten my toothbrush. I opened the drawer, thinking I’d just use his. There was a purple toothbrush there, right beside his familiar blue one. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but much later I realized of course it was Ashley’s, the girl he’d been sleeping with for almost two years by then.
That memory circles around in my head as I stand at Luke’s bathroom counter, looking up at my reflection and telling myself for the thousandth time that not every guy is Justin. Luke is not Justin. Not every guy cheats.
It’s just so hard to break the instinct to keep my arms locked over my chest, guarding my heart.
There’s no way I’m looking for Luke’s toothbrush. Instead, I do my best to make some order of my hair and brush my teeth with my finger and a tube of toothpaste on the counter.
With a towel wrapped securely around my body, I open the door, intent on finding my clothes and getting home, maybe even trying to slip out before he wakes up.
But walking down the hall toward the bathroom door is his sister.
“Margot. Hi.”
Margot, the one he was talking to last night. The sister who more than likely spent the night listening to us having sex.
