Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(12)

Conversations with my brother—not my most beloved pastime. But beggars can’t choose shit, and I haven’t given myself much of an alternative, in the four years since I moved to Scotland. I barely kept in touch with my Austin friends—from high school, from figure skating, from those grief groups I was forced to attend once every two weeks. New country, I thought, determined to leave behind the bullshit of my teenage years. New social circle that will not see me as a bereaved, defective human. It made so much sense, especially after I met Rose on the first day of S1.

“Excuse me,” she asked after tapping my back. “How comfortable are you with me touching your arse?”

I glanced behind me. Took in a beautiful, upturned nose and bottle green eyes. “Not very.”

“You’ll want to get over any reservations in the next few seconds, then.”

“Why?”

“Because you clearly sat in pigeon poo, and the back of your jeans looks like you shat yourself.”

I tried to look over my shoulder. Saw nothing.

“Not gonna work, not by yourself,” she said sympathetically, before smiling and adding, “Someone will have to cop a feel. It might as well be me.”

Rose was right: I needed her in my life for many reasons, most of which were not even tangentially related to dry cleaning. She was irreverent, and kind. Always honest and never judgmental. I adored her from the start, and then I adored her even more when she introduced me to Georgia, her wild, party-minded cousin. I’d always wanted to be thirty-three percent of a trio, and boy, did they deliver. For the past four years, they were there through it all: Exams, navigating a new country, figuring out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. The small tragedies and the overwhelming joys of everyday life.

Except, Rose and Georgia are currently unavailable to me. They, unfortunately, are busy taking each other’s side. As well as Alfie’s—the guy who dumped me exactly six days ago, after one and a half years together.

“It’s not working,” he told me with a pained wince. “Sorry, Maya. It’s just not.” I’d been wondering why he was so light on the details, and…

Well. Now I know, don’t I? And I’m here, wiping boogers off my face with the sleeve of my sweater, scouring my contacts for my brother’s number. I use it so little, I can’t immediately find it. Did I not save it under Eli? Or Killgore? How the fuck did I—Ah. There he is. I must have been feeling super witty on that day.

Zilla, Bro.

I listen to the ringback tone. Take a deep breath. I don’t want to sound like I’m having a mental breakdown as I tell Eli that…

What? What am I going to tell my brother? Hi, some asshole I’ve been dating but never even told you about just broke my heart. I mean, what am I trying to accomplish with—

“Harkness Group, how may I help you?” a woman’s voice asks. It’s kind, with a slightly plastic beat. Reception-y. Did I accidentally call my brother’s job?

“Hi. I was looking for Eli Killgore. I thought this was his phone number?”

“Mr. Killgore is en route to Australia, and for the next few hours his calls are being transferred to me. Who am I speaking to?”

“Maya. I—”

“Ah, yes. We were waiting for your call.”

“You…were?”

“Please hold.”

A brief parenthesis of jazz-adjacent elevator music is quickly interrupted by a curt, “Yes?” It’s a male voice, richly toned, crisply articulated, with a slight rasp. Familiar, but I can’t place it. Not my brother’s.

What the hell does one reply to Yes?

I clear my throat. “Hi. I’m looking for Eli?”

“Eli’s currently on his way to you.”

“…Is he?”

“Correct.” There is an accent. Not Scottish nor American. “In the meantime, I can discuss the financial incentives.”

My nose dribbles, and I try to keep my snuffle quiet. “That’s very generous of you, but I’m good.”

“I see. It was communicated to me that you were worried about the carveouts, and—”

“I’m not. Because I don’t know what a carveout is.”

“Excuse me?”

“All I want is to…” I get the tremor in my voice more or less under control, and restart. “Is to talk with Eli, so—”

“As the managing director,” he interrupts, firm, “let me reassure you that while Eli is in flight, I am more than capable of—”

“Are you capable of putting me through to Eli? Because that’s all I’m asking for.”

Yup, that was an explosion. Followed by a silent, drawn-out beat. And: “There may have been a misunderstanding. Am I speaking with the Mayers CEO?”

“I’m Maya. Maya Killgore. Eli’s sister.”

“You are—” A deep sigh. “Of course, you fucking are.”

And that, at last, is when I finally place the voice. It belongs to Hark. Or, Eli calls him Hark. Full name, Connor Harkness.

No, the Irish spelling. One n. That’s what the accent is.

Conor Harkness.

He’s my brother’s good friend. The best, maybe, though adult men rarely dole out the label. Our orbits have overlapped dozens of times, but unlike Minami, Hark never showed the slightest interest in me. I have faint recollections of him sitting in our living room, drinking beers with Eli, wearing high-finance clothes, saying high-finance things. I cannot remember him ever glancing my way or initiating a single conversation. Frankly, that was a relief. It wasn’t fun, being that young, feeling older men’s eyes on me.