“Does he have any friends?”
She lifts a brow. “What about Matthew?”
I wrinkle my nose and shrug noncommittally.
“Let me guess,” she says, “you’re over him.”
“Well, if I wasn’t before you went in-depth about the fireman, I would be now.” I laugh. “He’s …fine, I guess. I don’t know. The last time we fucked, I had to get myself off, if that says anything.”
“But I thought you liked him? Didn’t you have good conversation? I swear that you told me that the two of you stayed up talking all night.”
I roll my eyes. “What good is conversation if he can’t fuck?”
“Oh, Gianna …”
I shrug, uncertain what she wants from me. She knows me well enough to know that Matthew didn’t have great odds at longevity. I can’t think of a man who has made it more than two months.
Lucia and I are a lot alike, but we have a few significant differences—one of those being how we view relationships. Strangely, her take on them mirrors most of the women who call into my podcast. Our thoughts are so far apart that it’s comical we share the same DNA.
My sister believes with all her heart in romance. Flowers, dates, and handwritten letters professing one’s undying love—the girl thinks that falling in love is something that happens to you. I, on the other, very opposite hand, understand that romance is performative at best. At worst, it’s manipulation in the most heartbreaking way. Love exists, for sure. Butfalling in loveis irresponsible. It’sreckless. It’s a situation in which you’re without control, relying on emotions that can mask red flags and hoping that an unreliable chemical explosion inside your body isn’t misguiding you.
Yeah. That’s all too much for me.
And if our parents’ relationship was a model for anything—I’d rather opt out now.
“So who is the big interview tomorrow?” Lucia asks. She stands at the sound of the doorbell, grabs Matilda, and heads to the foyer. “I’m going to put the starter in the fridge so you don’t forget.”
“I couldn’t forget because I didn’t know that to begin with.”
“Now you do.” She disappears around the corner. “Who did you get to come on the show?”
“Francine got Mercy Malone from Wildfire,” I say, a burst of excitement lifting my energy levels. “She’s going to be sitting across from me, chatting with me like we’re friends. How can this be real?”
The door opens, then closes. “Mercy Malone? Are you kidding me?”
“I know. Who would’ve thought that I would be interviewing a rock star?”
Lucia returns, Matilda-free, and inspects the contents of both bags, then hands me one. “Me. I totally would’ve thought you could be interviewing a rock star. And I bet Mom would’ve thought so, too.” She smiles as she sits down again. “She always said that you couldn’t stop talking if your life depended on it because you’re justso magnetic.” She rolls her eyes, but her grin is all affection.
“Would’ve been nice of her to acknowledge that earlier and stop grounding me for everything. I spent half my junior year of high school in my room, sneaking out for a couple of hours of freedom once you all went to bed.”
I unwrap my sandwich, but before I can take a bite, my phone buzzes beside me. I reach for the device to silence it, but pause when I see the name on the screen.
A smile touches my lips.
Drake: Stopped to grab dinner. The current count is me—2,574 comments, you—143, no side/random commentary—2,032. I think it’s safe to say that I win.
I tap out my response, unable to wipe the smile off my face.
Me: You did not count them. Don’t lie to me.
Drake: Don’t lie to you like you lied to me?
Me: What are you talking about?
Drake: I’ll leave you with these …
“Cheeky bastard.” I laugh.
