Best Friends Don't Kiss(35)

“It’s a shame you can’t just bring Luke home with you,” Claire comments, and I tilt my head to the side.

“I asked him in the beginning. He said no.”

“Really? I wonder why. You guys do everything together anyway. You’re basically attached at the hip.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but you know our relationship isn’t like that. We’re literally just friends. Have been for years. And you know he hates how much I avoid everything. He’d rather I just told everyone the truth.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Desi asserts with a shrug of one shoulder. “I mean, it sounds like it’s safer than bringing home a guy who’s a murder risk.”

Claire snorts. “Yeah, that would certainly put a damper on the holidays.”

“I can’t. It’s just…way too complicated at this point.”

“So, take Luke,” Claire suggests.

“I told you. I already asked. He said no.”

Desi snorts. “Ask again, then. If you really push the issue, there is no way Luke is going to tell you no.”

Claire nods her agreement avidly.

I sigh and take a sip of iced tea. “My family knows Luke, though.”

“So, tell them you’re not just friends anymore,” Desi supplies. “I mean, you guys are super close. It probably wouldn’t be that hard to fake a relationship.”

Would it really work? Fake-dating Luke?

Your lips seemed to think it would work the other night.

I shake off the thought and sigh. “I was hoping to find something real.”

“It’s pretty hard to force something, Ava,” Claire says, her voice soft. “Love just happens. Finding someone…just happens. On its own schedule.”

I do know that relationships generally don’t happen on a fucking deadline.

But is forcing Luke into this really the best option?

I mean, he always has my back, but this? It feels like I’d be asking for a lot. A little too much, to be honest.

I just need to put on my big-girl panties and keep trying.

I need to forget about all the prior weirdos I’ve been subjected to—the Sailboat Fucker and the Cat Lover and Mr. Fishnet Tee and Se?or Pussy Lover—and chalk those up as an online dating learning curve. It’s kind of like beginner’s luck in poker; only, you have to get through the shit hands at the beginning instead of the end.

Surely, if I keep giving TapNext a try, I can match with someone who is nice and vaguely normal enough to bring home for the holidays…right?

God help me.





November 17th

Luke



At a little after eight in the morning, I drive my uncle Gary’s Audi R8 into the Woodbridge parking lot—a short walk to Teterboro—and pull into my rented spot. It’s not ideal to have a car while living in New York, but I’m willing to pay the extra monthly costs in parking garage fees for the convenience of always being able to get to the airport on time.

Normally, I’d drive my Jeep, but since my uncle has been in the Bahamas for the past year with his new—and insanely young—wife Claudia, I decided to take his car for a spin rather than let it sit in the parking garage of his building—which is also Ava’s and my building.

It’s not like he’ll notice, though.

He spent most of his life on Wall Street, pinching pennies and compounding interest, and by the time he retired a few years ago, he’d accrued more money than any one person needs in their lifetime. Needless to say, he’s simply living the good life, enjoying the fruits of his labor and a far-too-young-for-him wife.

I waste no time cutting the engine and hopping out of the driver’s seat. With a quiet beep beep, I lock the doors and toss my leather duffel over my shoulder. But before I can start the short walk to Teterboro, my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and I pull it out to find Unknown flashing on the screen with a call.

Thinking it’s probably some bullshit telemarketer asking me if I want to extend the warranty on a car I probably don’t possess anymore, I almost don’t answer it, but for some reason, something tells me I should.

Just in case.

So, I do.

“Hello?” I greet and resume my path toward the airport.

“Luke London?” A female voice fills my ear.

“You got him.”

“Luke, I have Tim Brindle on the line for you.”

I stop dead in my tracks. Holy fucking shit.

“Luke, it’s Tim.” A male voice takes over the call. But this voice isn’t just any man. He’s the Director of NASA’s Astronaut Program. “How are you doing?”

“Well…to be honest, sir, I’m not sure if I should be excited to hear from you or worried.”

Normally, the first step in finding out you’re an official candidate in the program is to receive a fancy acceptance envelope in the mail. Not a phone call.

Is this how they break it to you when you don’t get in?

Instantly, my bag drops off my shoulder, and I stand there and wait, in the middle of the fucking parking lot, too focused on the future of my fate to worry if I’m standing in anyone’s way.

“No need to be worried, Luke.” His soft chuckles bounce around in the receiver. “I am calling to let you know that the board has decided you are one of five prime candidates, and you’ve officially been accepted into NASA’s Astronaut Candidate training program.”