Sweet Filthy Boy(105)

“But we all agree he should have told you,” Lola says. “It sounds like you were blindsided.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The first time he takes me to a party this nice girl started talking to me and then her face melted and she turned into a vengeance demon.” I lean my head on Lola’s shoulder. “And I knew he had a long-term girlfriend so I don’t know why it was such a leap to tell me it was Perry, and that he lived with her, and even that they were engaged. Maybe it would have been weird but it made it weirder that it was this big secret. Plus, six years with someone you don’t love that way? That seems insane.”

Lola falls quiet, and then hums. “I know.”

I hate the small twinge of disloyalty I feel when I criticize him this way. Ansel was shaped by his experience growing up in the strange, possessive, and betrayal-filled relationship his parents had. I’m sure loyalty and fidelity mean more to him than romantic love, or at least he thought they did. I wonder, too, how much of his time with Perry was about proving he’s not as fickle as his father. I’m sure staying married to me is at least somewhat about that—no matter how much it was my insistence in the first place. I need to decide if I’m okay with it being both about proving something to himself and loving me.

“How is he doing?” Harlow asks.

I shrug and distract myself by playing with the blunt ends of Lola’s hair. “Good,” I say. “Working.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Well, from the whole game of telephone, you guys probably know more than I do.” Deflecting, I ask, “How is Finn?”

Harlow shrugs. “I don’t know. Good, I guess.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you just see him?”

She laughs and makes tiny air quotes as she repeats the words see him under her breath. “I can assure you I did not go to Canada for Finn’s sparkling personality or conversation skills.”

“So you went up there for sex.”

“Yep.”

“And was it good enough to go back?”

“I don’t know. If I’m honest, I don’t particularly like him that much. He’s definitely prettier when he doesn’t speak.”

“You really are a troll.”

“I love that you act like you’re surprised. Finn and me? Not a thing.”

“Okay, Mia, enough avoidance,” Lola says quietly. “What happens next?”

Sighing, I tell her honestly, “I don’t know. I mean this is what I’m supposed to be doing, right? School? Figuring out what I want to do with my life? The irresponsible thing was going to France in the first place. The grown-up thing was coming home. So why do I feel like it’s all backwards?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Harlow hums. “Maybe because it sounds like you guys were figuring out a new plan together?”

I nod. It’s true. “I felt so safe with him. Like, my brain didn’t always know but my body did? I didn’t know his favorite color or what he wanted to be when he was ten, but none of that mattered. And the silly things I knew about Luke, the giant list of stuff in my head I thought made us compatible . . . it seems so laughable when I compare it to my feelings for Ansel.”

“If you could erase this one thing from your time with him, would you still be with him?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely.”

“Look, I watched you lose the most important thing in your life and there was nothing I or anyone else could do to make it better. We couldn’t turn back time. We couldn’t fix your leg. We couldn’t make it so you could dance again,” Harlow says, voice uncharacteristically shaky. “But I can tell you not to be an idiot. Love is fucking hard to find, Mia. Don’t waste it because of some stupid lines on a map.”

“Please stop making sense,” I say. “My life is confusing enough right now without you making it worse.”

“And if I know anything about you, I’m pretty sure you’d already reached the same conclusion. You just needed someone smarter to say it first. I mean, I’m not downplaying what he did, it was a dick move. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”

I close my eyes and shrug.

“So we’re talking the big L-word, aren’t we?”

“Lesbians?” I deadpan.

She levels me with a glare. Serious-getting-in-touch-with-her-feelings Harlow is not someone you want to mess around with. “What I mean,” she says, ignoring me, “is that this wasn’t just about banging the sweet, filthy French boy.”