“Well, you see me. I’m fine,” I say, refusing to glance back at Lo. Two minutes ago, I was about ready to do anything and everything to him. That want to be pleased has not diminished, just my stupidity to do it with him has.
Her eyes narrow to slits and she gives me a long onceover. I tighten my robe, wondering if she can tell how my body feels by looking. Lo sure as hell can.
After a short moment, she retracts her claws. “I didn’t come here for a fight.” Right… “As you know, tomorrow is Sunday, and Daisy will be here for the luncheon. You’ve claimed to miss the past few because of exams, but it would mean a lot to our sister if you could spare a couple of hours to welcome her home.”
My empty stomach clenches with guilt. “Yeah, sure, but I think Lo may have plans already, so he might not make it.” Good, at least I can bail him out of the obligation.
Rose’s lips purse as she directs her irritation at Lo. “What is more important than accompanying your girlfriend to a family event?”
Everything, I imagine him saying. His jaw twitches as he withholds a smartass retort. Probably dying to mention how this is a function that happens every Sunday, regardless if Daisy attends or not.
“I have racquetball scheduled with a friend,” he lies with ease. “I can cancel if it means that much to Greg and Samantha.” Lo knows that if Rose is fussing over the luncheon, then my parents will surely blow steam if I show up without him on my arm. They’ll draw unreasonable conclusions—like he’s cheating on me, or heading down his old childhood past of partying too hard. He still does （maybe even more） but its best they not know that.
“It means the world to them,” Rose says, as if she has the power to speak for other people. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.” She stops by the door and eyes Lo’s jeans and plain black T-shirt. “And Loren, try to dress appropriately.”
She exits, her heels tapping in the distance.
I let out a long breath and reorient my mind. An impulse to finish what I started with Lo eats at me, and I know better than to return.
“Lily—”
“I’ll be in my room. Don’t come in,” I order. I downloaded a new video yesterday called Master of You. I planned to watch it much later, but I’m going to shift my schedule.
“What about when the pizza arrives?” he asks, blocking my path into the hallway.
“I won’t be long.” I try to slide by, but he extends a hand to the wall.
His bicep flexes at the movement, and I take a huge step backwards. No, no, no.
“You’re aroused,” he says, his eyes still on mine.
“And if you hadn’t teased me, I wouldn’t be in this position,” I say, frantic. “If I still can’t satiate this, I’m going to have to spend my afternoon traipsing around Philly for a guy wanting an afternoon quickie. Thanks a lot.”
Lo grimaces and drops his hands to his side. “Well now I’m stuck going to your family’s lunch, so I guess we’re even.” He turns his body, letting me through.
“Don’t come in,” I warn him again, my eyes bugging. I’m more afraid of what I’ll do to him if he does.
“I never do,” he reminds me. With this, he heads to the kitchen and waves tersely, downing the rest of his whiskey.
*
After my second shower and self-medication in the form of porn stars and an expensive vibrator, I tug on actual clothes: a pair of jeans and a maroon V-neck.
Lo sits in the living room, eating pizza and flipping through channels. A new glass of whiskey balances on his leg.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly.
His eyes briefly flicker to me before returning to the television. “For what?’
Sticking your fingers in me. “For getting you involved in Sunday’s luncheon.” I uncertainly take a seat in a red recliner opposite the couch.
He watches me like he always does, assessing my current state. He swallows his bite of pizza. “Honestly, I don’t mind going.” He wipes his fingers on a napkin and picks up his glass. “Better your father than mine.”
I nod. So true. “So…are we okay?”
“Are you?” His eyebrows rise.
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble and avoid eye contact by grabbing a slice of pizza and scurrying back to the safety of my chair. Safe distance, check.
“I’ll take that as a weak yes, considering you can’t so much as look at me right now.”
“It’s not you; it’s me,” I say through a mouthful, licking sauce off my finger.