I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(51)

There was nothing wrong with my shaking, eager fingers as I drummed the steering wheel or hopped out of the car and all but ran into the house. I booked it upstairs and made it to my closet, tossing hangers aside to find something fitting for a non-date friendship malt hangout.

Maybe if I told myself enough times that I wasn’t being weird, it would end up being true.

Dressed and doing my best not to overanalyze my choices, I waded through the discarded clothes on my closet floor and opted for my Birkenstocks. I figured nothing said “laid back” like wearing sandals to a diner, right?

A soft wail traveled up my stairwell, and I tilted my head to listen. Oh no. It was a bunko night for Mom and poker night for Dad, so that left Mariah. The front door slammed, followed by a sob, and I dropped my purse, slid my phone into my pocket, and ran down the stairs.

She stood at the fridge holding her Hydroflask to the ice machine, the jarring clunk of ice hitting metal punctuating Mariah’s thin moans.

“What happened?”

Mariah sucked in a sob, glancing at me over her shoulder. Her red-rimmed eyes were puffy and swollen, and I waited for her to fill her flask with water before I pulled her into a hug. It only seemed to make her cry harder, her wracking sobs wetting my shirt.

The clock on the microwave warned me that I needed to be out the door in five minutes. That was fine. I could listen to Mariah for five minutes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Her nod was slight against my shoulder, and I followed her into the living room, plopping on the couch as she removed her shoes and curled into a ball on the end cushion. Mariah sighed, dragging the sound out as if it took the anxiety from her body with it.

“Stupid boys.”

I waited for her to continue, my gaze flicking to the mantel clock. I needed to leave. How had five minutes passed so fast?

Silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by Mariah’s crying, and I knew immediately that I was not going to be leaving my house that night. I pulled out my phone and typed a quick text—Mariah didn’t even seem to notice.

Me: Raincheck? Mariah is having a meltdown, and I can’t really leave her.

“I just . . . I’m such an idiot,” Mariah said with intensity. “Why do I always go for the idiot boys? Why can’t I just like the n-nice ones? I need to date a nerd.”

“Theater boys aren’t nerds?” I joked.

She speared me with a glare, but her mouth twitched. Success.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked.

Tears welled in her eyes once more, and she closed them, likely to try to stem the flow.

“On second thought, I’m going to make some popcorn, and you just get it all out. You want ice cream too?”

Mariah nodded, though her eyes remained closed to the world.

I opened an instant popcorn bag and tossed it into the microwave before searching the freezer for half-gallon ice creams and pulling out all our options. My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of my pocket.

Liam: I’ll try to pretend I’m not devastated.

Me: Hopefully you can recover from this.

Liam: Only if you promise to go out with me tomorrow.

Me: Deal.

Liam: Is she all right?

Me: She will be. Just boy troubles.

Liam: Do you guys have enough ice cream? I don’t have sisters, but on TV when girls talk about boy troubles, they usually eat ice cream.

Well, who was relying on media stereotypes now? It didn’t help that he was right. The spoonful of chocolate ice cream hung limp from my mouth as I surveyed the six ice cream options sitting on the kitchen island. Grinning, I flipped on my camera and sent Liam a photo of our substantial supply.

Me: I think we’re covered.

Liam: GIF of a man from the office show we both liked laughing.

I could just picture Liam on the other end of the phone, sitting in his car or wherever he was when he got my initial text and laughing at my embarrassing supply of ice cream. But hey, a girl should always be prepared, shouldn’t she? Besides, this was a family stash.

I filled two oversized mugs with various flavors each, then put everything away and carried the mugs, with the popcorn bowl nestled against my side, to the living room.

Mariah had seemed to get a hold of her crying, and I handed her a mug of sugary, feel-good medicine. “Talk now?”

She nodded, gathering a deep breath and blowing it out through her teeth. “I was super into this guy at school, and when he got the role of Mr. Darcy I sort of thought it was fate. I mean, we were playing Elizabeth and Darcy. Could there be a bigger sign?”

“Not really,” I agreed, trying to ignore the fact that Mariah had told me she wasn’t into the guy playing Mr. Darcy. It hurt, but she was young and entitled to her secrets. “I would go for that too.”

She gave me a wry smile, shoving a bite of chocolate ice cream into her mouth. “What is it about a tall, dark, and handsome guy?”

“I don’t know. Jane Austen ruined us for fair-haired men, I guess.”

I tossed some popcorn into my mouth and waited for her to continue.

“Speaking of fair-haired men, whatever happened to Andy? You’ve been home every night last week, so obviously you two aren’t together anymore.”

Wow, I was such a horrible example for my sister. “We just didn’t work out.”

She lifted an eyebrow. Yep, she got that gene. “Because he didn’t change?”