“Grilled chicken. Broccoli.” I keep my voice flat. “Maybe rice, if you’re lucky.”
She gasps, hand to chest in mock horror. “Be still, my beating heart. You really know how to party, Miller.”
“Dusty doesn’t complain.”
“Dusty eats socks.”
***
We eat at the coffee table, with Dusty sprawled between us as referee, his head rotating depending on whose fork looks more promising.
“This is tragic,” Lulu says, holding up a broccoli spear. “You live like this?”
“It’s hockey fuel,” I deadpan.
“It’s bird food.”
“Birds don’t deadlift.”
Lulu nudges the other takeout container with her knee. “You ordered fries.”
I keep my eyes on the grilled chicken. “They came with it.”
She plucks one out and bites with a hum that’s entirely smug. “They’re for me.”
“They’re for Dusty.”
Dusty thumps his tail in agreement, and she rolls her eyes, lips twitching, then wiggles the remote at me. “Alright, your culinary crimes have been noted. Now, put onSummer Shoreline.”
I groan. “That dating show?”
“Thatcultural phenomenon.” She presses buttons before I can protest, and suddenly, a montage of spray tans and white teeth fills the screen, contestants introducing themselves while wearing swimsuits that should violate at least three laws.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. This is brain rot.”
“Brain rot with good lighting.” She grins and scoops up a fry.
“It’s people crying over margaritas.”
“Exactly,” she says, eyes bright. “High stakes, low inhibitions, cocktails in plastic cups. What’s not to love?”
“This is why humanity’s doomed.”
“This,” she says, pointing at the screen with her fry, “is why humanity’s fascinating. Look at the mating rituals, the alliances—this is pure anthropology, high art.”
“High art, huh?” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken.
“Absolutely.” She steals another fry and pops it in her mouth. “It’s honesty. No one hides their crazy when a camera’s on them twenty-four seven.”
“You’re saying this like it’s a good thing.”
“It is. At least you know what you’re getting.”
Something in her tone snags, and I glance over. She’s still watching the screen, but her smile’s faded at the edges.
“They’re ridiculous,” she murmurs. “But at least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”
I grunt in reply, but when one of the guys on screen tries to impress a girl by quoting Aristotle, she groans.
