EMERSON
“Em? What the . . . ? Did something . . . happen?” It wasn’t just that Lauren was surprised to find me here. From her WTF expression and her inability to form a cohesive sentence, I’d say she was downright flabbergasted. She did a quick scan of the parking lot, and then surveyed me up and down, her features shifting from stunned to horrified as she took in my ponytail and sweatpants—the kind of clothes she might wear out in public, but not me. Never me. “Oh my God!” she gasped, her imagination working overtime. “You tried to cook, didn’t you? You burned the house down!”
I’d spent the past hour waiting for Lauren on the hood of her car in the parking lot of the community center where she was now gainfully employed. No matter how many times she’d explained it to me, I still didn’t get it. She had a business degree and a family who cared about her, why on earth would she want to work here, getting paid what amounted to minimum wage? It wasn’t that I was a snob—not in the way Aster was or anything—but I just didn’t get the whole wanting to risk your safety on a daily basis. The place was straight out of a crime drama, the kind where they found bodies stuffed in Dumpsters.
And the kids who came here? Seriously scary. On the outside, I tried to pretend their whole smoking, tattoos, and dead stares vibe didn’t terrify me. While I’d waited, I’d kept my nose buried in the pages of People and Star and Us magazines. But as my Grann had always said, on the inside, I’d been as jumpy as spit on a skillet.
This was my rock bottom. I had resorted to reading about the glamorous lives and fashion mishaps of Miley Cyrus and Kim Kardashian while fielding dirty looks from disadvantaged kids.
Classy, Em. Classy.
I closed my magazine and glanced over Lauren’s shoulder to make sure we were alone. “Don’t be so dramatic,” I crabbed at her, even though her comments weren’t that far off the mark. I should never be allowed near a stove, and we both knew it. “The house is fine. I just . . .” I sighed, my entire body collapsing into the sound. This sucked. “I just needed you is all. I need someone to talk to.”
Relief washed over Lauren’s face, making me feel even worse. I’d hoped Lauren would take one look at me, in my ratty, regular-person clothes, and she’d instinctively know—just know—how wrecked I was by this whole Lucas disaster.
Lauren knew me better than anyone in the entire universe. She’d been my best friend since freshman year of college. She’d held my hair when I drank so much peach schnapps I could taste it coming back up. And I’d made her cookie dough, and then helped her binge eat the entire batch while watching Steel Magnolias the day she got the news her cat, Nutters, had died. You never really knew a girl until you’d watched her plow through an entire bowl of cookie dough. Right now, though, I needed her to read my mind. To talk me out of my depression—or whatever these feelings were. To tell me everything would be okay. Tell me I was too good for a wannabe beach bum, surfer boy like Lucas Harper anyway.
So it sort of crushed me when her face scrunched up, and I realized she didn’t magically know why I was here. “Why didn’t you just text me? Or come inside and ask for me?”
I slid off the hood. “You were . . .” I shrugged. “You were doing whatever you do in there. I didn’t want to bother you. Plus, those kids . . .” I glanced to a girl who’d come outside and was glaring at me. I glared back, feeling braver now that I had Lauren here for backup. “I don’t think they like me.”
Rolling her eyes, Lauren tsked me. “How many times do I have to tell you? The kids don’t even know you.” Her scowl softened. “Maybe if you gave them half a chance. You’d see they’re good kids. They’ve just had it tougher than most. They have a hard time trusting new people.”
I glanced at the girl again, trying to see her the way Lauren might. Her too-big sundress was faded—a hand-me-down of some sort. Her brown eyes were soft and wide, not nearly as frightening or glower-y as I’d first thought. She certainly hadn’t been raised in an affluent suburb or gone to an elite private school, the way I had.
“If you say so.” I gave a neutral shrug. Why were we even talking about these kids anyway? This was supposed to be about me. This was about Lucas being a two-timing man-whore.
Lauren came over and leaned against the bumper, where I was putting on an epic pouting performance. She took one of my magazines and thumbed to the “Stars, They’re Just Like Us!” section—as if. She didn’t say anything for a minute or two, then she nudged me with her shoulder. “So? What’d he do?”
I blew out a breath, not even sure where to start. How could I explain what had happened last night, when Aster-whatever had barged in on us, practically peeing on Lucas and declaring him off-limits.
Except that’s the thing, he hadn’t actually cheated—at least not on me—since he and I were never officially an item. So what right did I have to feel cheated on?
Lied to? That wasn’t quite right either, except maybe by omission since he hadn’t bothered mentioning Aster. But maybe that was worse.
“He sort of has a fiancée,” I finally confessed.
Lauren lowered the magazine, no longer interested in “Who Wore It Best.” “Lucas? Your Lucas? How do you know?”
“She showed up. Last night. Just as we were about to . . . you know . . .” I inserted a well-placed eyebrow wiggle. “Needless to say, we didn’t finish.”
“Jeez, Em.” I could see she was floundering for the right thing to say. “I mean . . . jeez. What did Lucas have to say for himself?”
“Nothing, really. He tried to come by this morning and apologize—flowers and everything. But he never actually denied who she was.” I sighed again. “And the super-shitty part was, she was the worst, Lo. She was a giant B.”
Lauren gave me an understanding look. “So . . . she was pretty?”
I threw my head back dramatically. “I mean, yes. I guess so. If that’s your type. She’s so . . . pretentious I doubt she even realizes anyone else exists. And apparently that is Lucas’s type. Or was. Or . . . whatever. I mean, at least he could’ve had the decency to be engaged to a total cow.”
“But they are engaged?”
Shrugging again, I got up. “He said they were on a break, but who knows. This chick didn’t seem to get the memo. It’s not like I was planning our wedding or anything; I just wish he would’ve said something.”
“And you would’ve been okay with that? With him having a sort of fiancée he was messing around on?”
I chewed my lip, thinking about all the guys I’d hooked up with and dumped. All the times I’d refused to get attached, or let anyone get attached to me . . . mostly for this very reason. So no one would get hurt. So I wouldn’t get hurt. Would I really have been okay with breaking up someone else’s relationship, even to be with Lucas?
I hated when Lauren forced me to be introspective. I hated even more when she was right.
Other girls got worked up over guys. I’d done everything in my power to not be like them. I’d spent all of high school steering clear of girls like them, the ones who traveled in packs and held summits in the bathrooms. The kind who let boys pull their strings, and who melted into mascara-streaked puddles at the slightest offense. The ones who would blow up a guy’s phone the instant they were dumped or cheated on, with no regard for their own dignity.
Thanks, but no thanks.
I’d seen how things ended for them.
I’d seen their future.
And I refused to let it end that way for me.
I’d made myself a solemn vow that I’d never, ever, never let anyone hold that kind of power over me, and I’d spent the past seven years separating my emotions from boys. I’d mastered the importance of playing the field without getting attached.
I was a no-strings-attached kind of girl. The love-’em-and-leave-’em type. Basically, I’d turned myself into a dude.
A dude with an impressive rack.
I chewed my lip until I tasted blood. “You know what? I came here for moral support, not for you to be reasonable.”
Lauren crossed her arms and gave me a look, like I was a preschooler throwing a tantrum over not getting the crayon I wanted. “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.” Then she smiled. “Besides, weren’t you the one who always said guys are dogs?”
Truth. Lucas was a dog. So what did that make me? Especially since I was now picturing myself on all fours, with Lucas positioned right behind me?
Thankfully, Lauren had no clue where my thoughts had wandered.
“But . . . you still like him. Right?”
Banishing the lurid image from my mind, I cleared my throat. “Even if I did, he’s still a jackhole. I don’t want to see his stupid face ever again.”
She grinned. “Liar. I’ve never known you to be a quitter.”
“Quitter?” I gasped. “Who’s says I’m a quitter? I’m just a free spirit. I don’t want to get involved, is all. No guy is worth that much trouble. Not even Lucas Harper.” I tried to sound convincing.
But Lauren looked unconvinced as she studied me, and I wondered if she’d heard it too, the hollowness in my words. Then instead of calling me on it, she said, “Will’s working swing shift. And Tess . . . well, Tess is fifteen going on twenty-five, she’d rather have the place to herself. Whaddya say we head over to Laguna and grab us some shakes from Shake Shack?”
Okay . . . so, maybe I was wrong about Lauren. Maybe she was a mind reader, after all.
It’s probably why I’d picked her to be my best friend, because she totally got me. She knew that just because on the surface I tried to act like no guy could breach the fortress I’d built around myself, somehow Lucas had bulldozed his way through. Something I’d never seen coming. Something I’d never wanted.
And now here I was, left with a pile of rubble and no idea how to fix it.
Milkshakes were a good start. Milkshakes, and then maybe a shower and some decent, non hobo-ish clothes.
Before we left, while Lauren was waiting for me in her car, I slid a twenty and four one-dollar bills—the only cash I had in my wallet—between the pages of the magazine I’d been reading. Only the brown-eyed girl could see the tops of the bills peeking out when I walked over and handed the magazine to her. To Lauren, or anyone else watching, it probably looked like I was offering the girl fifty glossy pages of fashion advice. But I didn’t care what anyone else thought.
When I got in the car and buckled my seat belt, Lauren quietly said, “There’s hope for you yet, Emerson McLean.”