Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(11)

I groan. “Axel?”

“Yup. He is fine. And he came with his younger brother, Paul. Who’s also fine.”

“God, I haven’t seen Paul in years. Actually, he may have become a lawyer in the meantime.”

“Uh-uh. I checked. Engineer.” She scrunches her nose. “He seems really nice, though, which doesn’t bode well.”

“For what?”

“For his ability to not latch on to me past the wedding.” She shrugs. “The nice ones fall easily. And for some weird reason, the meaner I am, the harder they want me. Maybe I should just go for the third one.”

“Who?”

“Hark. He’s hot, too. Old enough to know what he’s doing. Above all, if I have one talent—and I have a million—it is picking out the most emotionally unavailable man in a group, and boy, is he the one. I guarantee you, that guy hasn’t experienced a feeling since the nineties. So I might—”

“He’s mine,” I blurt out.

Actually, no: I may have hissed it. Through gritted teeth. Which has Nyota’s slender neck shrinking back and her eyes sharpening.

“Jesus.” I rub my eyes. Say a silent prayer for a nunchuck to rotate my way and take me out. “Shit. I didn’t mean to…”

“Well, well, well. Well.”

“I’m sorry.” I swallow. “That was shitty and a little too aggressive of me. If you want to hook up with Conor, you can—”

“Conor, eh?” She nods slowly. “That’s the first time I’ve heard him called that.”

“Well. It is his name.”

“Hm-hmm. And when did Conor invite you to use his first name?” Her chin dips. “Was it when you fucked him?”

I burst out laughing. “You mean, in my dreams?”

“So you’re admitting it.” Intrigued Nyota is formidable and unstoppable. Every Nyota is. “Does your brother know you’re into his best friend?”

“He…It’s a very long and boring story.”

“I am a corporate lawyer, girl. My tolerance for boring is higher than the debt ceiling.”

“FYI, nothing has changed since the last time we met. I still don’t understand finance-related jokes.”

“Poor wittle girl is just a fucking nuclear physicist, boohoo.” She shakes her head, and I’m chuckling again. “Spill, Maya.”

“There isn’t much to spill. Eli knows, but also he doesn’t? When I moved back from Scotland I started openly lusting after Conor in front of Eli…more or less jokingly.”

“Less, I’m guessing.”

“I’d tell him stuff like…‘Oh, I noticed Hark’s cute after all.’ ‘Did you see how good he looked in the red tie?’ That kind of stuff. Of course, Eli did not want to hear any of it. That was ninety percent of the fun. But he never knew…” How deep it ran, I can’t bring myself to finish.

“So, is Eli the problem? If anything happened, would he go apeshit? Bro, you’re doing my little sister, I’m gonna have to kill you now.”

“What an excellent impression. But I doubt it. And by now, he thinks I’m over it.”

“Then, if it’s not Eli, what’s stopping you from fucking Hark?”

“He…is older, for one.”

“And that is an issue, because…?”

“Good question.” Validating, too. I massage my temple. “Apparently, age gaps are highly morally objectionable.”

She waves a hand. “Seems like a sweeping generalization. Sure, some are. But you’re an adult. There’s nothing wrong with having a little problematic summer fling. Especially if you walk into it with open eyes.”

“According to Conor, there is. Something wrong, that is.”

“Hang on. Does Hark know you’re into him?”

“He…” I sigh.

“Let me rephrase. Does he know you as anything more than Eli’s sister? Have you ever had a single private conversation with Conor Harkness?” She must see something on my face, because she settles more comfortably against the cushions, and I…

I tell her everything.





Chapter 6




Three years, two months, three weeks earlier

Edinburgh, Scotland

I’ve been sobbing for forty-five minutes—grotesque, phlegmy, shoulder-quaking heaves—when it occurs to me that there is someone I could call.

My older brother.

Eli is by no means my first choice. He is, in fact, so far down the list, I don’t even consider him until a blond tourist walks past me in a navy blue Penn State shirt. She briefly glances at me before turning to her boyfriend, no doubt to exchange a What the fuck is wrong with the raccoon-eyed girlie covered in snot sitting in St. Andrews Square Garden at sunset? look.

I glare resentfully at the way the two hold hands, picture throwing a knife at her back, and that’s when the letters string together to form something with meaning.

Penn State Field Hockey Team.

Field Hockey.

Hockey.

Eli.

As far as free associations go, it’s pretty weak—my brother used to play the ice variety of the sport—but who cares? It reminds me that I’m not completely alone on this shitty little rock of a planet. The last of the daylight may be slipping away, but someone exists who is related to me by blood. Our shared genes might compel him to pick up the phone. Or even just the fact that I’m calling him for the first time since I was back in Texas for the summer holidays. Last year.