She quiets, sighing as the name I’ve used for as long as I can remember makes her stop and take a breath. “Do you feel ready for all of this?” she asks. “It’s only a few months left here and then somewhere new.”

“Unless I go to UCSD.”

“But you won’t. I know you. I can tell you want to move.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I think I’m ready for a change.” We’ve had this conversation a hundred times—maybe more—and I do want to prepare her for the chance that I’ll be across the country this time next year. Margot gives me more shit than everyone else in my life combined, but she’s still my best friend. Staying close to her is really the only argument for going to UCSD Law next year. “I mean, sometimes it’s overwhelming. Like, yesterday—”

“Wait, let me conference in Mom.”

I sit up in my seat, eyes wide. “For the love of God, why?”

But she’s already gone.

I stare around the parking lot—home of the most delicious Mexican food in my neighborhood, and where I hope is also the location of my dinner sometime in the near future—and watch a handful of seagulls fight over a few scraps of tortilla someone has thrown their way. My stomach growls.

Two seconds later I hear the line click, and Margot asks, “Everyone here?”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Here,” Mom says brightly. “What’s going on, Bubbles?”

Mothers and nicknames. Honestly.

“Nothing,” I say. “I honestly have no idea why I’m not eating dinner right now instead of having a conference call.”

“Luke was nervous about applications,” Margot says.

“Margot, I swear I’m not nervous!” I tell her. “They’re all done.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, honey! Did you mail them?” Mom asks, and I groan.

“They’re due Tuesday,” my mother and sister remind me in unison.

“Funny thing,” I say. “I dressed myself this morning. Had breakfast. Managed to get to work without any help at—”

“It’s easy for me or Daddy to take them down,” Mom says over me.

“Or me,” Margot adds.

“I even shaved without incident,” I tell them, but I know they’re not listening to me.

“Luker,” Margot says, completely undeterred, “did you ever apologize to Mia?”

Oh, my evil bitch of a sister.

“Mia Holland?” Mom asks.

Margot confirms with a chirped, “Yep.”

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose and muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

“Why does he need to apologize to Mia?” Mom presses.

I shake my head. “I should never tell you anything, Margot.”

My sister laughs. “As if you could keep a secret from me.”

“Luke,” Mom interjects, “what happened with Mia?”

“Tell her,” Margot urges.

I let my head thump back against the headrest and try to quickly figure out how much I really want to talk about this right now. I know they’re invested. They truly love Mia, and always will. But life moves on. We’ve moved on.

Mia was my best friend. We didn’t just share our first kiss and first touch and lose our virginity to each other—we were fucking in love. She was calm and quiet; I was outgoing and sometimes wild. She knew me better than I knew myself and that’s so fucking clichéd, but it’s the reality. I told her everything, and if I didn’t tell her something it was only because she already figured it out on her own. That kind of shorthand came from knowing each other as kids and growing up in synch. We shared history. Any other woman coming into my life would get the abbreviated version of me, but get held up to the same yardstick. And I know that, at least for now, any other woman would fail. It wouldn’t be fair.

I close my eyes as the conversation at Fred’s the other night comes back to me.

Mia, introducing me to her husband.

Husband.

She looks older, but not physically. It’s in her eyes, the way they’re steadier now, they don’t blink away as readily. She didn’t stutter or prolong a single word. She introduced him—I couldn’t even hear his name over the sound of blood pounding in my ears—and I was . . .

I was horrible.

“Husband? You’re . . . married?” I’d asked, dumbfounded. We don’t run in the same circles anymore. I knew she was seeing someone, but married? The information floored me. Literally tossed my lungs onto the floor.

Her husband stepped closer to her side as she told me, “We got married in June.”

Ignoring him, I asked her, “After knowing him how long?”

“Not that it’s your business,” she said with a tiny smile up at him, “but, yeah, we were in Vegas and—it just happened.”

I felt my face tighten in disgust. No, not disgust. Hurt. “Seriously? A cliché Vegas wedding, Mia? There really is nothing left of the girl I knew, is there?”

The memory of her expression after I’d said it makes me feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.

“Seriously, you guys,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “It was nothing. We ran into each other, I was rude.”

“Rude?” Mom asks, and God love her for seeming unable to imagine such a thing.

“Mia is married,” Margot says in a scandalized hiss. “To a French guy. A law instructor at UCSD.”

“How wonderful!” Mom practically shouts. “I need to send them a gift.”

“Yes, good idea,” I agree dryly. “You guys, I’m starving. Can I go?”

“You should call Mia,” Margot says.

“I’m not calling Mia, you brat.”

“Are you eating out, Luke?” Mom asks. “Why don’t you just come home for dinner? I made chicken and rice.”

“Bye, Mom, I love you. Margot, you’re dead.”

I hang up.

* * *

I STEP INTO the restaurant, dodging other customers in my peripheral vision as I scroll through my texts. Just as I get in line to order, I hear a tiny snort and look up, catching the whip of blond hair as the snorter-in-question turns toward the counter.

So I’m left facing the back of a blond head that looks awfully familiar.

I pocket my phone. “Hello, Amsterdam.”

I didn’t expect to see London here, in line at my favorite Mexican joint only a few miles from work. But here she is, and my heart does something unfamiliar: it sort of jumps and then hammers, as if I’m particularly excited to see her.

She looks over her shoulder at me, and then tilts her head down as she does the lengthy inspection of my entire body. “Nice suit.”

“Same,” I tell her. Holy shit, I mean I’ve seen her naked, but catching her in a bikini top, little cutoff shorts, and flip-flops at sunset makes me feel moderately dizzy. “But who forgot to tell you it’s cold outside?”

Tilting her head, she asks, “It’s someone’s job to tell me when it’s cold?”

I open my mouth and close it, realizing I have nothing witty to say. She turns back to the counter with a little smile, leaning forward to order. I can see the curve of her ass peeking out beneath her shorts. Honestly, I could wait in line all damn day with a view like this.

While she waits for her change, she turns a little to look back at me. “I don’t think I know what you do during the day, because I would not have predicted the suit.”