Page 32 of My Merry Mistake
“Ah, shoot. They told you,” I say.
“Of course they told us,” Poppy says. “The real question is—what the heck have you been waiting for this whole time?”
“So this really was all real—youactuallyhave a thing for her?” Eloise throws her arms up in the air.
I wince and shrug at the same time.
“She thinks you’re teasing her,” Eloise says.
Poppy looks at me. “She thinks it’s all a joke.”
“Correction—she thinksI’ma joke,” I say. “I just . . . let her.”
“Aw, Finn,” Poppy says, a tinge of pity in her voice. She reaches over and puts a hand on my arm. “You’re an idiot.”
I frown. “I?—”
They both shake their heads in a long, slow movement, like two choreographed disappointed parents.
“You’ve come to the right place, my friend.” Eloise claps a hand on my shoulder.
“Guys?!” I call out to the other room. “You wanna come help me in here?”
“No, no, no,” Eloise holds up a finger at me. “They will not come to your rescue.”
“Sit.” Poppy points to the stool on the other side of the counter. “When did your infatuation with our very cranky but very beautiful older sister begin?”
Again, my mind conjures images of Raya—walking straight to the bar, then tipsy on the dance floor, then with her arms up around my neck in the dimly lit room . . .
But I can’t go there. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.
“Halloween party two years ago,” I say, which is not exactly a lie. Because before that night, I assumed I’d never see Raya again. “You were both there.”
“Ah,” Eloise says. “Morticia.” She grins. “I told her she looked hot.”
I laugh, and even though I don’t say so, I silently agree.
“So this whole time—” Eloise picks up a chip, scoops up some dip, and pops it in her mouth— “all those flirty little comments—it was real.”
“Of course it was real,” I say.
“I knew it.” Eloise smacks Poppy across the arm. “What have I been saying this whole time? I knew it!”
“You knowwhyshe doesn’t take you seriously,” Poppy says.
“Because I’m not serious?” I ask, even though this is really not a question that needs to be answered.
Poppy shrugs.
“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “I need you to tell me how to prove to her that I may not be a serious guy, but Iamserious about her.”
There’s a pause, and then they look at each other and do this weird thing that girls do where it looks like their faces are melting into pouty expressions and they both let out a long “awwww.”
I only stare.
“Okay, well, first . . . you flirt with everyone,” Eloise says. “So, flirting with her isn’t unique or special, you know?”
“I don’t flirt?—”
