As a general rule I don’t do commissions for family and friends—things have a tendency to get weird whenever money is involved, and so I try to steer clear—but to this day, Oliver’s site is one of the best things I’ve ever done. And it paid well, too. A few more jobs like that and I’d be well on my way to a kickass portfolio.

Lola closes her bag and does a quick inspection of what I’m wearing. “If I had to guess, I’d say those aren’t your clothes.”

Crap.

“How do you know I don’t wear men’s basketball shorts and T-shirts when you’re not around?” I deflect, going into the fridge and grabbing the last Red Bull. I have a long night ahead of me. “I have a very eclectic style.”

She takes a step toward me and pushes my hair behind my shoulder, so she can read whatever’s written across my chest.

“I don’t. But I do know that you aren’t now, nor have you ever been, a member of the UCSD Water Polo Team.”

Double crap.

I turn, waving her off, and put down my drink so I can pretend to sort through the mail. “Borrowed it from one of the guys at the beach,” I say.

“Uh-huh. I’d question that, but since you’ve sworn off men, and I’m in a hurry, I’ll take you at your word. For now,” she adds meaningfully, and loops her purse over her shoulder.

With this little dig I’m reminded that Luke basically called me a man hater, and made some little crack about my “Barfly Box of Shame.”

Luke’s wrong, of course. I don’t think all men are assholes. Finn, Ansel, and Oliver are pretty great. My dad can be fun—when he’s not cheating on my mom—and I’m quickly beginning to adore Fred. But now I’m irritated all over again and still have to talk to Mia.

Lola and Oliver leave and I shower again, knowing the conversation might be a little easier to get through without the scent of Luke’s shampoo clinging to my hair.

I’m suddenly starving and eat a tuna fish sandwich while standing at the counter.

I decide to rearrange and fix a hinge that’s been squeaking, and check my bank balance on my phone. Basically, I stall.

With the loft paid for and only a few small student loans looming, I’m pretty good for money in the short term. Can I afford to surf all day and work at Fred’s at night and get by? Sure. Is there any left for much else? Not really. I wasn’t completely joking about the car fund because I actually do need to replace my car, and there’s a new graphics program I’d like to get my hands on—one that will let me do bigger sites with more complicated plugins—but there’s no way it’ll happen if I’m just working at the bar.

Luke has a way of finding all my buttons, and pushing them while wearing that goddamn infuriating smile. Asking why I’m still tending bar is definitely one of them. He’s right, I don’t need to, but people don’t like to pay for design work from someone without a ton of experience. My portfolio is shaping up, but it’s not enough. Not yet. Unfortunately, Fred doesn’t have any more hours to give me and I’d rather shave off my eyebrows than ask my parents for money. A second job would definitely help and I make a mental note to ask some of my bartender friends about extra shifts at one of the local clubs.

That could be a good thing. I’ve gone home with Luke twice now; I definitely have too much free time on my hands.

Which brings me back to what I’m supposed to be doing: calling Mia.

I decide to woman up, and scroll through my contacts, stopping on Mia’s name. I don’t normally call Mia out of the blue—I might call to track down one of the other girls, or to clarify plans—so she doesn’t even have a contact photo next to her name.

She picks up on the second ring and after a moment of frozen, startled silence, I realize I have no idea exactly how to have this conversation.

“Hello?” she says a second time, and I snap back to my senses.

“Hey,” I say, pacing the floor of my living room and thankful beyond reason that Lola isn’t here to see me. “This is—”

“London! Hey, how are you?”

“I’m really good,” I say, and twist a piece of hair around my finger. “How are you guys?”

“We’re great!” she says, and she really does sound great, happy, so much so that I have an image of the word actually bursting out of her. “Ansel is all settled in at UCSD, and my dance classes are so fun. The kids are adorable.”

“And the house?”

“The house is awesome. We started talking about what we’re doing for the holidays this year and it hit me all of a sudden that we are grown-ups who are married and own a home together. Will this ever stop feeling like someone else’s life I’m living?” she asks rhetorically. “What about you, what have you been doing? I saw you the other night but you were gone before I could come say hi.”

How am I? I finally figured out how to turn on the TV, the sound system, and the cable box, all with the same remote. I mainlined the entire first two seasons of Veronica Mars in a single day and thus didn’t leave the house once that weekend. Oh, and I haven’t had to use my vibrator in a week because I’ve been having sex with the boy you lost your virginity to.

Gah.

I drop down into a chair and scrub my hand over my face. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say. “Who I’ve been doing”—I freeze and my eyes go wide in horror—“What I’ve been doing.”

Mia’s adorable laugh bursts forth. “Okay?”

“So, listen, I didn’t realize it at the time, but I started—” I stop because I started what? Going out with? No, that’s definitely not what Luke and I have been doing. “I started hanging out with this guy,” I say—and yeah, that’s better, not too subtle and technically not a lie. “The thing is that when I started . . . seeing him—this guy—I had no idea you two had dated.”

“Who I dated?” She goes quiet, and then her voice comes back a little smaller. “Wait, are we talking about Luke?”

I briefly consider lying or just hanging up all together, but I know this is something I have to do. “Yeah. I saw you two talking the other night, but didn’t really make the connection until today.”

I don’t know what I expected, but I know what I’d hoped for: a laugh, an immediate reassurance. Something to let me know this isn’t as big a deal as it feels.

Instead I get a stunned: “Oh my God. You’re seeing Luke?”

“I’m not really seeing him,” I clarify. “It just felt weird when I found out about your history, with us being friends and all.”

“I mean,” she starts, and then laughs once, breathily. “Sorry, this just surprised me. It’s fine—we’ve been over a long time, London—it’s just a surprise,” she says again. “I think my brain needs a second to catch up.”

“Mia, just so you know, it’s really not a thing between us at all.” I’m not sure if this helps my case because now I’ve basically admitted we’re only fucking. “It was this thing that sort of happened; he didn’t even have my name right at first.”

Oof. Stop talking, London.

Her laugh is stronger this time, more convincing. “No, no. I mean, you don’t have to explain how Luke is. He’s been with girls I know before, it’s just . . .” She falls silent, and I can tell we’re both struggling to find the best thing to say.