Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(65)

Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly. “My dad’s been cheating on my mom since I was sixteen. It’s sort of an unspoken rule in my house that we never talk about it—even though everyone knows.”

I’m initially horrified, but then . . . another piece of the London puzzle falls into place, and it feels like a tiny bomb has just gone off inside my chest. I think of my parents, the way they look at each other, and try to imagine how I would deal with it if I thought all of it was a lie. I can’t. “That’s . . . I’m sorry, Logan.”

“I always told myself—and my mom when we’d argue—that I’d never put up with being treated like that.” A few beats of silence pass before she lets out a long breath and continues. “I’ve known Justin my whole life,” she says. “His mom and my mom are best friends, and we were always close . . . but we didn’t start dating until the summer before our senior year. He moved here with me from Colorado. I went to UCSD and he was at SDSU, even though his first choice was to go to Boulder. But I mean, San Diego has been my second home. I always knew I wanted to go to college out here, and I couldn’t wait to leave Denver.” She goes quiet for a few seconds, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think it was sort of like how things were with you and Mia, where you just assumed that you’d be together forever.” Looking over at me, she says, “Apparently, he met someone at the beginning of sophomore year and they were all but living together during the week. I found out because I walked in on them.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “Senior year. Right after my grandmother’s funeral. He said he had to work, but . . .”

My stomach bottoms out and I let out a long exhale. “Holy f*ck. Your senior year?”

“Yeah. Almost three years he was cheating . . .” She trails off, shaking her head. I can’t even school my expression right now. My mouth is just gaping open. The f*cking nerve of this prick.

“And apparently they’re still together,” she says quietly. “Getting married, actually . . . so there’s that.”

My reaction to all of this is to want to punch something. “What a bag of dicks.”

She nods. “It’s taken me a really, really long time to stop feeling pissed off. Actually, I still feel pissed off about it. I think when I give my heart, I want to give everything. You make that decision, and it’s all or nothing, you know?”

She winces when she says this, as if the admission is somehow embarrassing, and my chest is so tight that I’m not even sure how to respond. I want her everything. I want to pummel the * who made her feel her love was wasted.

When she realizes I’m struggling to reply, she continues, voice brighter, “Anyway, after I came out of the initial miserable fog of humiliation and heartbreak, the only thing I felt I’d gained was a certainty that I’m a terrible judge of character.”

“London,” I say. “You’re not.”

“Oh, I am.” She smiles at me, and it’s so sweetly fragile that it cracks something in me. Pulling her hair up into a bun on top of her head, she holds it there in both hands. Fuck, it feels so good to talk to her about this. For as much as I’m enraged on her behalf, I’m elated to have her here, and just . . . talking to me in a way I feel she doesn’t with very many people, if anyone.

“I mean,” she says, “I can pick out the obvious *s. That’s what bartenders learn to do. But the smarter ones just might be better at hiding it. That’s what sucks the most, what I’m actually the angriest about: even if I like someone, I will never trust my judgment. Do you know how that feels? To have been so wrong that it feels like your people meter is just broken?”

The weight of this entire conversation seems to hit me at once, and I slump back against the couch. “That’s significantly depressing,” I agree.

She throws her hands in the air. “I know!”

“It explains a lot about why you’re such a hot mess,” I tell her with a grin, wanting to make her smile again.

“Same,” she says, nodding her chin to me.

“Our relationship histories are totally depressing,” I say. “Tell me something funny.”

She sighs, thinking. Finally, she says, “Vagina roughly translates to sword holder in Latin.”

I turn to look at her. “It was named for the penis?”

“This surprises you?” she asks, looking at me in shock. “Hello? Patriarchy.”

“But even back in the day?” I say. “They spoke Latin. That means everyone knew that vagina meant sword holder. It wasn’t like now where most people don’t know that meaning. A woman would have to refer to her parts as her sword holder. ‘How’s the sword holder?’ ‘Alas, it’s pretty empty right now.’?”

“Her ‘parts’?” she repeats with an amused grin.

“What?” I ask, smiling back at her. “You called it your ladybird.”

“True.” She lets her head fall back against the couch again, groaning. “Now I’m all gross and sad thinking about Justin. I need sugar.”

“Left side of sink, top cabinet.” She rolls her head to look at me, and I add, “It’s where I keep the treats.”

“Bless you.” London pushes to stand and I stare at her ass as she walks away and into the kitchen. I hear her banging around in the cabinets, and then she yells, “Oh my God! Are you okay?”