Page 79 of Love Sick

“That’s not longing. It’s annoyance.”

Tori snorts. “Yeah. Annoyance that she hasn’t let you in her undies.”

My breath expels in one long sigh. “Have you noticed that I never harass you about your love life?”

She waves a hand, dismissing me. “That’s because I don’t have one. She’s wonderful, BB. Mom would love her.”

I know.“Can we talk about something else?”

“But, Julian—”

“She’s not interested, Victoria.” My voice sharpens, rises in volume, and a few patrons at the table beside us shoot curious glances our way.

Victoria scrutinizes me. “Are you blind?”

“No—”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re a man, so the answer to that question is one-hundred percent yes. Just trust me. She’s into you.”

I take in her brown eyes, her set mouth, and search for the joke. “You’re lying.”

Her tone softens. “Why would I lie about something like that?”

That…can’t be true, can it? I think over the last couple months—the interlaced fingers by the pool, the brush of her hand in an elevator, that quickly hidden flash of disappointment the moment she realized I had another girl in my apartment. The first was my doing, and the second was an accident I embellished just to embarrass her. That last I chalked up to simple displeasure that I chose a date over studying—something Grace herself would never do.

Except lately, when she looks into my eyes, I’m seeing something deeper. I’ve ignored it. Attributed it to familiarity or budding friendship.

But maybe…

Electricity wakes inside me, a current connected to a tenuous thread of hope. It adulterates my chemistry, immersing it in nonsensical endorphins. My face scrunches as I try to stop it, but it’s no use. The hope exists now, along with the potential for disappointment.

“Julian?”

I match Tori’s gaze, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Eyes shuttered, she nods. “More mimosa?”

* * *

The night of Asher’s annual Halloween party, Grace swings her apartment door open, grinning. A red-and-purple-­corset dress with skirts that brush the floor covers her body, and a purple cloak hangs from her shoulders. In addition to the devil-red lipstick, dark makeup coats her eyes and a beauty mark dots her chin.

“Are you…a wench?” I ask.

Her shoulders fall. “I’m Sarah Sanderson.”

I rack my brain. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

She sighs. “Were you abused as a child? How do you not knowHocus Pocus?”

“Oh. Right. The witches. Yeah, I remember that.”

Satisfied, she grabs her phone and shoves it into her dress beside her breast. That can’t be comfortable…

She eyes my outfit. “What are you?”

I hate dressing up, but Asher insisted that no costume meant no entry.

And costume means costume, Santini. No showing up in street clothes and insisting you’re Regular Joe.

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