“God. That’s my dating life in a nutshell. A guy doing the bare minimum but thinking he’s profound.”
I glance over again. She’s half-laughing, but her shoulders slump just slightly.
“Had one of those on Saturday,” she admits. “Nice on paper. Asked about my class, which was sweet. But every time I talked about something fun like star signs, writing my manifestations, planning Charlie’s bachelorette, he… dismissed it, like it was cute and silly.”
I clear my throat. “Sounds like an asshole.”
“Not an asshole, just not… for me.” She shrugs, crunching into another fry, but her eyes stay fixed on the TV. “I swear, everything I like is either silly or frivolous to people. The principal at my school, PTA moms, dates—it’s always the same. They just label me a bit of a ditz and move on.”
Something rages through my chest because her words shouldn’t gut me, but they do. The thought of her dimming any part of herself—the light, the laugh, the weird little quirks that make herher—it feels wrong. She’s got more steel in her than half the guys in our locker room.
“I dunno.” She brushes salt off her fingers. “Maybe I just need to be more serious.”
“No.” The word rips out sharper than I mean it to. Her eyes snap toward me, and I force my voice to steady. “You don’t need to be more serious. The right person will take you seriously.”
For a second, she just blinks at me. Then her lips tug sideways, a grin fighting through, and she leans back on the couch cushion. “That’s because you’re a Scorpio.”
I snort, shaking my head at her deflection, but I don’t roll my eyes. Not when she’s half-teasing, half-testing. And I get it. It’s not about someone believing in star signs—it’s about someone believing in her.
I believe in her.
By the time the episode ends, she’s laughing so hard, she’s doubled over, curling into my couch, and clutching her side at some scripted fight over sunscreen. Dusty snores at her feet, lulled by the sound.
I don’t move, just watch her. Animated, alive, lighting my whole damn living room up. Her laughter softens when she catches me staring.
“What?” she teases, but lightly.
“Nothing,” I mutter, dragging my eyes back to the credits rolling on screen.
Logistics, I remind myself. Dusty. Nothing else.
But when she gathers her bag and tosses me a thank you at the door, I don’t move when she closes it behind her, leaving only Dusty’s snores and the echo of her laughter.
The house is immediately too quiet without her in it.
Chapter nine
I didn’t come here to name my vagina
Lulu
The fluorescent lights in the produce aisle hum like they’re mocking me while I debate avocados that are either rock hard or already halfway to guacamole. My phone buzzes, and when I glance down, Dusty’s lopsided face fills the screen—tongue out, ears flopped, pure chaos.
Logan:Dusty’s already camped by the door. Don’t let him talk you into a second dinner.
Logan:Would’ve said bye in person, but it was too early for a Saturday.
I bite back a smile that would probably get me weird looks from the woman squeezing cantaloupes beside me, but my heart skips at the idea of seeing him all sleepy and fresh out of bed anyway. Too early for him, maybe, but apparently not too early for my insides to stage a parade.
Me:Wow. Abandoned. Ghosted. Crushed before breakfast.
Three dots bounce around, then pause.
Logan:It’s called efficiency.
Me:Is that the only word in your vocab? And for the record, I’m a delight at 6 a.m.
Logan:Doubtful.
