Little Lies(14)

Even lines make me anxious. Sometimes people try to talk to me, and then I have to make polite conversation with strangers, and I don’t have the energy left for that today.

I give her a grateful smile. “Okay. I’ll take a decaf, coconut-milk latte and a scone or a muffin.”

“That’s it? They have sandwiches.”

“A muffin is good.”

“Nothing with raisins, though, right?”

“Right.”

As soon as Lovey gets in line, she strikes up a conversation with the guy in front of her. She isn’t even flirting. She’s just nice.

Lacey and I talk about class schedules while we wait. Every few minutes someone stops to say hi. Lots of girls give BJ a sly second glance when they pass him. Like Lacey and Lovey, he’s a junior, but unlike most twenty-one-year-olds, he’s sporting a full, lush beard, better suited for someone at least five years his senior. He’s also sporting a sizeable tattoo that spans from his wrist to his elbow, and he has plans to continue the art until he has a full sleeve, exactly like his dad. In fact, BJ is almost the spitting image of his father, apart from his chocolate-brown eyes, which are very much his mother’s.

The other big difference is that instead of being into hockey like his dad, BJ is a figure skater—a tattooed, bearded figure skater, who hangs out with a bunch of hockey players. He gives off a zero-fucks vibe at all times. Since our mothers are half sisters, we’ve always spent a lot of time together, particularly during holidays.

When Lovey returns with food, BJ’s eyes pop open. He yawns loudly and stretches. “Lavender? When’d you get here? How long have I been out?” His voice is low and raspy with sleep.

“A while ago.” I help Lovey unload the tray of food. She was smart not to let me go up and order myself. There’s no way I could carry the tray without spilling something. I’ll never have a serving job; that’s for sure.

BJ leans forward to scope out the goods. Before he can reach for something, Lovey shifts to block him, her hands on her hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m hungry,” he says gruffly.

“And? You think you can pick whatever you want without even asking?” There’s as much amusement in her tone as there is annoyance.

“I was just looking. Besides, the one thing I really want to chow down on is you, but you keep denying me.”

“Oh my God! You’re disgusting!” She shoves his shoulder.

BJ flops back in the chair, his grin full of mirth. Lovey’s face is completely red as she huffs and throws herself back down on the couch, as far away from BJ as possible.

It doesn’t matter that we’ve all grown up with him, or seen him in a full sequin leotard, he still hits on Lovey all the time. BJ isn’t related to the twins, so it’s not quite as squicky as it would be if he flirted with me like that. I can’t decide if he does it because it always gets a reaction or because he’s a compulsive flirt. Then again, he doesn’t do that with Lacey.

Before I can take a seat in the middle of the couch again, BJ grabs me by the waist and yanks me into the chair with him.

“What’re you doing?”

“I need you to save me. A girl I hooked up with last semester walked in, and she’s a stage-five clinger. Pretend like you’re into me.”

I make a gagging sound and try to get out of the chair, but the springs in the seat are shot, and my knees are practically at my chest. “Seriously, BJ, that’s just wrong. We’re related.”

“She doesn’t know that. Just stay put until she’s gone.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder to keep me seated.

I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed or entertained or both. BJ is ridiculously charismatic, and girls throw themselves at him on a regular basis.

A tall, blonde girl with her hair pulled up in a ponytail, fastened by a pink glitter bauble more suited to a six-year-old, wearing uber-short-shorts, a spaghetti-strap tank, and four-inch espadrilles sashays over, popping pink bubble gum. Interestingly, she looks a little like Lovey and Lacey, but a lot less wholesome.

She glances at me, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns a creepy, megawatt, lip-glossed smile on my cousin. “BJ! How are you? You remember me, right? We hooked up at that party at the end of last semester. I texted you after, and then left you a voicemail, but maybe you didn’t get the messages.”

“I got the messages.” BJ’s tone is flat.

“Oh.” She twists the end of her ponytail around her finger. “I get it . . . end of year, you got busy with stuff.”

“Uh, not really. I figured it was a one-off, so I didn’t think calling or responding to text messages would give the right impression.”

I don’t know whether to be embarrassed for this girl and her obvious desperation or horrified by BJ’s easy dismissal.

“Oh. Yeah. Totally.” She nods a bunch of times. “I thought maybe you’d want to hook up again, but, like, maybe you’re involved now, or whatever.” She shoots me another scathing look. “Anyway, I heard there’s a party this weekend, so if you’re there, and you’re, like, not attached, then we could hang out again or something . . .” The offer hangs in the air like a hot fart after taco Tuesday.

“It’s probably not gonna happen. But you know, I appreciate the offer.”