“You’re getting hit on by a stripper?” I guessed. Lana made a buzzing sound.
“Wrong. Peter forwarded me this charming selfie.”
“Intentionally?” I gasped in horror.
“No, I think he meant to send it to Luke Larson, his frat brother, but the phone auto-filled ‘Lana’ instead,” she explained in a careful monotone, as if any expression of emotion might break a dam she’d built.
“Done in by autocorrect.” I handed her back the phone. I wanted to delete the photo. It wouldn’t do any good for Lana to keep it on her phone. “What did you do?”
“I replied back ‘nice rack.’ He called me immediately asking what I was talking about. He tried to say that it wasn’t anything, just a pledge prank. The lies were so weak that I figured he wanted to get caught, forcing me to be the one to break up with him.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t give him the satisfaction. He wants to break up to pursue other girls, then he needs to man up and do it. I’m not going to make it easier for him.” Lana picked up her fork and started rearranging spinach leaves. Her disinterest in eating worried me, but it was only one day.
“I’m surprised you shed any tears over him.”
“Oh, closure, you know.” She gave an uncaring wave of her hand, but her actions revealed that she liked him more than she had let on. Sometimes it was hard to know where you stood with Lana. She was too busy protecting herself. If you weren’t persistent, she never let you in. Even I found Lana hard to read, despite living with her since I was twelve. But I knew her tough exterior hid a very big heart. We may be cousins by blood, but we were sisters of the heart.
“We Sullivans are bad at relationships,” I informed her. “You and I need to start following Josh’s playbook.” Josh didn’t date. He hooked up exclusively and currently seemed to be trying to burn his way through the female population up at State.
“Of course we are,” Lana said. “We’re merely exhibiting patterned behavior learned at an impressionable age. We don’t know anyone who has a healthy and loving relationship, so we are unequipped to develop our own.”
“So essentially we are doomed,” I said wryly. Lana’s parents were married, but Uncle Louis was hardly ever home, too busy golfing or out on his boat. I guess I understood because no one liked being around Lana’s mom. She was mean to everyone but hardest on Lana, constantly criticizing everything about her. Lana wasn’t ever thin enough. Her blonde hair had too much brown in it. Her grades weren’t good enough. She didn’t speak well enough. It was amazing that the eating disorder was the only thing Lana developed.
She shrugged and moved a few more pieces of food around her bowl. Not one piece had made it to her mouth yet.
“Do you ever think part of our problem, Lana, is that we spend more time talking about boys than anything else? How is this different than high school?”
“The guys are better looking?” Lana asked, more of a statement than a question. “When we were in high school, you never talked about boys.”
“I didn’t?” I thought back to our many discussions, and they all seemed devoted to who was dating whom. If only we got tested on the social status and habits of our classmates. I’d have aced that test.
“Nope. It was always Noah for you. You weren’t interested in anyone else. It’s no wonder that the real Noah is screwing up your head big time.”
“Do you think I shouldn’t spend time with him?” She hadn’t said a word of warning, and I had been waiting for one or a dozen.
“No, actually I think spending time with him is a good idea. It’s like the pictures you take in rooms with too much light.”
“Overexposure?”
“Right. It will show you how real and flawed he is, and then, when he dicks you over again, you will finally give up on this fantasy and move into the real world.”
“Ouch,” I said. I knew Lana was hurting, but I didn’t need to be a passive punching bag.
“I’m not trying to be mean here.”
“No?” I loved Lana but she had a little of her mother in her, and sometimes, when she was hurt and angry, it leaked out. I braced myself.
“No. It’s just that…” she paused to look up from her food, “…it’s easier to have a relationship with someone who isn’t there than someone who is.”
“How did this discussion become all about me?”
“Because it’s easier for me to talk about fixing you than fixing myself,” Lana admitted.
“All right. If subjecting myself to your amateur psychoanalysis is going to make you feel better, get it out,” I motioned for to continue. “Just eat a few cucumber slices between criticisms, please.” Lana made a face but took a whole mouthful of food. After she had swallowed, she deliberately wiped her mouth with her napkin before continuing.