Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1)(92)

“Please stop making sense,” I say. “My life is confusing enough right now without you making it worse.”

“And if I know anything about you, I’m pretty sure you’d already reached the same conclusion. You just needed someone smarter to say it first. I mean, I’m not downplaying what he did, it was a dick move. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”

I close my eyes and shrug.

“So we’re talking the big L-word, aren’t we?”

“Lesbians?” I deadpan.

She levels me with a glare. Serious-getting-in-touch-withher-feelings Harlow is not someone you want to mess around with. “What I mean,” she says, ignoring me, “is that this wasn’t just about banging the sweet, filthy French boy.”

“It never really was just about banging the French boy,” I tell her. “I think that’s what freaked you out.”

“Because it’s big,” she says, and then high-fives me as we all yell, “That’s what she said!”

But then her expression sobers again. “Even when Luke left,” she continues, “I knew you’d be okay, you know? I told Lola, ‘It’s hard now but give her a few weeks. She’ll bounce back.’ This is . . . different.”

“It’s almost laughable how different it is.”

“So you’re . . . what?” When I still don’t have any idea what she’s asking, she goes on. “You asked me to talk to my dad about the annulment but is that really what you want? Are you two talking at all? And don’t shrug again or I’ll jump across this couch and punch you.”

I wince and shrug. “We text.”

“Are you in high school?” Harlow asks, swatting my hand. “Why don’t you call him?”

Laughing, I tell them, “I’m not ready to hear his voice yet. I’m just getting settled. I’d probably get on the next plane to Paris if I heard him say my name.” Sitting up and turning so I can look at both of them, I add, “Besides, Ansel is out there climbing the ladder and I was like a hamster running in a wheel. I need to get my act together so if he does ever get here, he doesn’t feel like he has to take care of me.” I stop talking and look up to see them watching me still, expressions completely neutral. “I needed to grow up, and Ansel being an idiot pushed me out of the nest in a way. He’s the one who got me excited to come back here to school. I just wish I hadn’t left mad.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Lola says. “I’m just so happy you’re here.”

“God, so am I,” Harlow says. “I was losing serious sleep with all your middle of o’dark-thirty phone calls.”

I throw a pillow at her. “Ha, ha.”

“And what about a job? You know my dad would hire you to come sit and look pretty in one of his offices. Want to confuse the hell out of some middle-aged executives for the summer?”

“Actually, I got a job.”

“That’s great!” Lola grabs my hand.

Always the more skeptical one, Harlow continues to watch me. “Where?”

“My old studio,” I say. And that’s all I have to say, really, because barely a moment has passed before both Lola and Harlow are practically in my lap.

“So proud of you,” Lola whispers, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders.

“We’ve missed seeing you dance. Fuck, I think I might cry,” Harlow adds.

I laugh, halfheartedly trying to push them away. “It won’t be the same, guys. I’ll—”

“For us it will,” Lola says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Harlow says, and stands to look at each of us. “Enough of this sentimental business. We’re going to get something to eat and then we’re going shopping.”

“You guys go. I’m headed to the studio in a little bit to talk to Tina. I need to shower.”

Lola and Harlow exchange a look. “Fine, but after you’re done we’re going out out. Drinks on me,” Lola says. “A little welcome home for our Sugarcube.”

My phone vibrates along the table and Harlow reaches for it, pushing me away with her long, glamazon arms. “Oh, and Mia?”

“Yeah?” I say, trying to get around her.

“Pick up the damn phone when he calls or call him yourself. You have ten voice messages and let’s not even talk about your texts. It doesn’t have to be today, doesn’t even have to be tomorrow, but stop being a wimp. You can go to school and work and pretend you’re not married, but you can’t fool us into thinking you’re not completely in love with this guy.”


THE DRIVE TO the studio that afternoon is definitely weird. I expected to feel nervous and nostalgic, but realize almost as soon as I’m on the road that although I’ve made this drive hundreds and hundreds of times, Mom accompanied me on every single trip. I’ve never actually been behind the wheel for this particular journey.

It unwinds something in me, to take control of a course I’d moved along so passively for so long. The unassuming strip mall appears just past the busy intersection at Linda Vista and Morena, and after I park, it takes a few minutes for me to process how different it looks. There’s a glossy new frozen yogurt place, a Subway. The big space that used to be a Chinese restaurant is now a karate studio. But tucked in the direct center of the row, and updated with a new sign, new smooth brick exterior, is Tina’s studio. I struggle to press down the tight swell in my throat, the nervous lurching of my stomach. I’m so happy to see this place—no matter how different it looks—and also a little heartbroken that it won’t ever be what it used to be for me.