Page 48

He sits in a restaurant, but he isn’t truly there.

His date is lovely, but she’ll never be her.

“ Bechdel ,” I screech at Yasmin when that familiar dreamy adoration clouds her gaze.

Lips abruptly snapping shut, my friend sighs and drowns whatever disgustingly sweet nothing she was about to spew with a slug of Heineken. “Oh God,” she moans, head dropping forward, but stopping short of colliding with a weathered, sticky coffee table. She rises with a grimace. “I’m pathetic.”

In lieu of agreeing, I take a sip of my drink too.

My non-alcoholic drink. A mocktail. A goddamn Shirley Temple because apparently, when Finn learned that I don’t drink, he not only remembered, but he spread the information around.

Just like when I told Yasmin I don’t do bars, she remembered.

She made sure not to take us to a bar tonight, but a…

I’m not sure. A pub, I guess. It looks more like someone’s grandmother’s living room.

Cozy and carpeted with low, deep armchairs and a fire crackling in the corner.

I won’t pretend I waltzed in here, turned my nose up at the wall of liquor behind the bar, and started preaching about the magic of sobriety. I was the opposite. I was practically salivating. The moment the bartender’s eyes landed on me, I was ready to suck him off for a fucking thimble of wine.

But Yasmin jumped in. Sweet, lovely Yasmin who would probably die of shame if she found out that I don’t do bars because I can’t. Because I shouldn’t. Because if she hadn’t beat me to ordering, I would probably be drunk already.

I don’t know if I’m grateful or fuming that I’m not.

That Yas keeps insisting on buying another round instead of letting me get one—she claims I’m convalescing .

Which I think she thinks is a synonym for licking my wounds .

Which I know she thinks I’m doing because that’s why we’re here.

Out. Just the two of us, away from the guys, not thinking about them or talking about them or acknowledging their existences.

Because Yasmin was there when Finn strode out of the A-frame earlier, wearing his finest fucking jeans and a clean pair of boots. She took one look at my face, at whatever it was doing, and dragged me upstairs, forced me into a fresh, tight outfit, and dragged me out the door.

She hasn’t made me talk about it though. Hasn’t needled me with the same questions she asked earlier this week, about my interests . Like I said, we’re strictly forbidden from discussing all things male; hence Bechdel.

A test that Yasmin has only failed, oh, I don’t know, a dozen times . Because as we cycle through every subject under the sun, Theo’s name inevitably crops up.

“I can’t help it,” she whines as she slumps in her armchair, feet nudging mine beneath the low table separating us. “He’s my best friend. I like talking about him. I love him, y’know?”

I don't know, but I nod anyway. And I take pity on my friend, throwing her a bone. “How did you guys meet?”

That dreamy look returns. “We grew up next-door to each other.”

“Childhood sweethearts?”

“God, no.” Yas snorts. “I was way too good for him back then.”

“I’d argue you’re way too good for him now.”

Red-painted lips quirk. “He’d agree with you.”

We both laugh, and she spends thirty minutes, maybe more, reliving their romance until I feel like I lived it too. Like I was there when he finally had enough of just being friends, of watching her date other people, and professed his undying fucking love.

“Sounds…” Like a fairytale. Unfathomable. Idealistic. “Nice.”

“It is nice.” Yasmin smiles against the rim of her beer bottle. “You want that?”

“A couple decades worth of pining?”

One long leg risks the livelihood of the empty glassware littering the table by stretching out and kicking my shin.

Sighing, I pluck the cherry from my drink and nibble on the sugar-sweet flesh, pondering the question. “I dunno,” I mumble, slumping to frown at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who wants to be alone forever.”

That makes me laugh. “I don’t strike me as someone anyone wants to be with forever.”

Yasmin makes a noise like she disagrees. “You’re not as bad as you think you are, Lottie Jackson.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m a lot worse than you think I am.”

“Oh, woe is freaking you,” Yas grunts, surprising me with her rough tone, snapping me to attention.

“You know, you are the only person who thinks you’re some evil entity, wreaking havoc and ruining everyone’s lives.

It’s so fucking frustrating. People like you.

Lots of people for lots of reasons. I like you and it pisses me off when you act like that’s some insane, impossible thing.

” She reaches across the table to squeeze my knee—to pinch the skin above it in gentle reprimand.

“Cut yourself some slack, Lot. You’re twenty-two.

You’re a baby. You’re supposed to make mistakes and be a little shitty.

It’s how you become a not-shitty real adult. ”

Jaw just about on the floor, I blink. I swallow—or I try to, at least. My mouth is suddenly incredibly dry, void of words as well as saliva, as empty as the head that can’t quite wrap itself around what Yasmin is saying.

“That sounds like a cop-out,” I eventually manage to get out, but it’s the wrong thing to say, it has Yasmin huffing and shaking some more.

“It sounds like life , Lot. You’re not supposed to be perfect. Especially not you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly, it’s Yas’ turn for silent blinking. Sinking lower in her seat, she downs the last of her drink, wincing as beer and guilt burn a path down her throat.

I sigh. “You know, right? About my parents. My grandparents.”

“I mean, it’s hard not to know. It’s kinda, like, integral Haven Ridge lore. People talk about you guys a lot.”

God, don’t I know it. “So, what? My mom’s dead and my dad’s a deadbeat and his parents are deadbeats too, so I get a free pass?”

“No, dummy. You get a little grace. You get a little understanding. I’m not excusing every shitty thing you’ve ever done, I’m just saying that your shittiness doesn't have to be, like, your definition. It’s not your only character trait.

There’s more to Lottie Jackson than her rage, okay?

I know that. The guys know that. Your family knows that. ”

She pauses—not to let me catch up, to let her little speech sink in, but to summon some strength for herself, I think. “Finn knows that,” she mouths cautiously. “Finn knows that.”

“Whatever that tone is…”

“You know exactly what my tone is.” Wide eyes lower to half-mast as Yas peers at me from beneath her lashes, her mouth a dry, wry stroke. “Do you think I’m stupid, princess ?”

I wince. Slump a little lower. Try to become one with the armchair, to absolutely no avail. “We’re friends.”

“No, we’re friends. You and I. Me and Finn. You two are…” At a loss for words, she dashes a hand through the air. “Something else.”

Nope. Not doing this. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m in love, Lottie. A seasoned lover girl. Might’ve been a long time since I started falling, but I remember what it looks like.”

Against my screaming instincts, putting aside the fucking absurdity of this conversation, I ask, “And what’s that?”

“Kinda like your face when Finn left the house tonight.”

“Jesus.” I warble some desperate iteration of a laugh. “So I’m in love with him, am I?”

“I think you could be, if you let yourself.”

“I think we’re not supposed to be talking about boys.”

“I think you’re deflecting,” she accuses, and rightfully so, but she allows it all the same.

Rising from her seat, she scoops up an armful of our empty glasses and starts yet another journey to the bar, pausing by my side to give my shoulder a pat.

“I mean it, y’know. All of it. Lottie Jackson is more than just her rage. ”

Watching her totter off, I repeat that little mantra, rolling the words around on my tongue.

I close my eyes, and I chant it a couple more times in my head.

And just a little, barely even so, I start to believe them.

As we rumble towards the A-frame, the headlights of our taxi illuminate a figure sitting on the porch.

I don’t look too hard. I assume it’s Theo, awaiting his beloved’s return. I poke Yasmin and sigh dramatically, with false contempt, and playfully shield my eyes as we clamber out of the car so I don’t get an eyeful of their dramatic reunion.

Except the grip looped around the crook of my arm doesn’t disappear—it tightens. I peek between my fingers and find Yasmin isn’t gazing at the porch, but gaping at me. “What?” I ask only to answer the question for myself with a turn of my head.

Instantly, my spine locks. My guard rises, screeching into place, iron replacing the bones of my ribcage.

My upper lip curls and I’m pretty sure I snarl—I’m definitely sure that the bitter, resentful burn creeping up my neck is jealousy.

Petty, pathetic jealousy that I douse with as much common sense as I can muster, with a healthy dose of come the fuck on, Charlotte Radley Jackson.

“Home already?” I quip as I saunter down the drive, wishing I could blame my uneven gait on intoxication—wishing Yasmin wasn’t there to feel me stumble while simultaneously being grateful for her steadying presence. “What did you do, call out another woman’s name?”

As the taxi retreats and leaves the moon as the only light source, a grim smile is barely visible. “Something like that.”

“Naughty boy.”

Long fingernails pinch the thin skin on the inside of my elbow. “You okay, Finny?”

Finny hums. When Yasmin leaves my side to pat his shoulder on her way up the steps he’s slouched on, he squeezes her hand. One of those easy, affectionate gestures he abruptly stopped giving me.