Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(90)

“Because I told her, that’s why.”

“Okay, but—maybe that’s not actually enough. Doing something is a lot harder than just saying it. She has no idea what you’re doing when you’re gone, or who’s texting you God knows what. I don’t even know, and I’m rude enough to ask.” She stands from the couch and walks over to the front door, where she’s dropped a heavy bag. “And I didn’t actually come over here to lecture you. I came over here to use your washing machine. Playing bossy big sister was just a bonus, I guess.”

I’m silent and she steps up behind me, dropping a kiss to the top of my head.

“I love you,” she says, “but straighten your shit out.”

I have nothing to do but think, and Margot’s words play on a loop in my head. London’s worry that I’m only interested because I think she’s some sort of thing I have to conquer makes me crazy. The thing is, I know myself. I’ve f*cked scores of women, but only loved two. When I love, I do it to the center of the earth. To the part that’s liquid, soft, terrifying. I understand why she’s scared, because so am I. Losing Mia was like losing a limb. I had to relearn how to do things without a part of me that had always been there. But I worry that losing London would be like losing something vital, some beating, living part of me.

I can hear Margot crashing around in the laundry room, singing some emo song at the top of her lungs, and as if on cue, my phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of me. With a sigh, I reach for it, unsurprised when the screen lights up immediately, a handful of messages already waiting. There’s one from Dylan asking if I want to go to Comic-Con this summer, but there are a few from girls, too. Some girls I remember, and some I don’t.

I never thought much of all the texts and propositions for booty calls—it was always funny, a bit of a game and easy to ignore—but London was clearly frustrated that I didn’t see her text last night in the sea of notifications, and she’s never even read some of these. What would she think if she saw them? How would she feel? How would I feel? It doesn’t take a genius to know how I’d react if it were London’s phone full of messages from guys—so full that she would miss a message from me in all of the noise—and it’s enough to pull my spine straight and zap any last bit of humor from this whole thing.

This was exactly what Margot meant when she said it wasn’t enough. It’s not enough to tell London I’ve changed. I have to actually show her.





Chapter SEVENTEEN


London

LOLA’S PHONE IS ringing—Lola’s phone is always ringing—and I grab it from the counter, carrying it down the hall. I can hear the familiar scratch of charcoal against paper as I near her open door, and find her hunched over her desk, finishing a sketch she was working on before she ran out for her deadline pick-me-up coffee.

I knock on the wall just outside her door before stepping in and setting her phone down in front of her. “You left this in the kitchen.”

She looks up from her drawing to squint down at the screen and then, deciding to ignore it, looks up at me. Doing a slight double take, Lola pulls off her glasses, whispering a quiet “You okay?”

I nod.

Lola knows that’s not true—I came home from the beach with red eyes, slipped immediately into my pajamas, and have barely said a word since—but she’s rarely one to outright push.

Back in the kitchen, I pour a bowl of cereal and return to my laptop, clicking through each page of Lola’s new website.

It feels a little like someone is sitting on my chest, and my eyes sting, but I’m not letting myself think about my fight with Luke.

I don’t want to deal with it right now.

My fingers seem to move on their own, entering code while my brain races ahead, imagining how this newest illustration will look as a thumbnail next to the others.

Although the film studio has a landing page for the movie adaptation of Razor Fish, the placeholder I set up specifically for Lola’s site with only her name, a short bio, and a registration link has racked up tens of thousands of hits since they started filming. Adding these last details—along with the idea of making the page live—is both thrilling and the slightest bit terrifying.

I absently stir my cereal as I scan the pages again, searching for anything I might have forgotten. After a deep breath of bravery, I call over my shoulder. “Hey, Lola?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come out here when you’re done? I want to show you something.”

I hear her chair scrape back from the desk, the sound of her feet against the hardwood, and then she’s there, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

“Hey, sweetie.” She starts to say something more when her gaze flickers up to the screen—I’m still working in the site dashboard so I know it doesn’t look very interesting at the moment, but she sucks in a breath. “Oh my God. Is this the site?”

I’ve shown her various graphics over the last few weeks, had her give me feedback on the layout, and discussed what she wants where, but she hasn’t actually seen anything yet, not all together like this.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Are you ready?”

She nods quickly and takes the seat at my side.

“I think it’s good but if there’s anything you aren’t sure about, or want changed, just let me know.” I’m babbling nervously, but this moment feels so huge to me. “They’re all pretty easy fixes at this point.”