Chapter 9
LILY
Ruth's Diner has the best pancakes in Harbor Hill, the worst coffee, and booths deep enough to disappear into.
Which is exactly what we need after three hours of shopping that somehow left Poppy with six bags, Erin with one sensible dress, and me with a lip gloss I don't need and a dress I have no occasion for. Poppy talked me into both. She has a gift.
We're crammed into the corner booth now, the one with the cracked vinyl and the view of the whole diner, surrounded by fries and coffee cups and the kind of chaotic energy that happens when we still haven't run out of things to say.
Ruth has topped off our coffees twice already and given us the look that says she's listening to every word, but would deny it under oath. I don't blame her. Poppy is mid-story about something Ramsey did the other night involving a blindfold and a timer, and even I'm leaning in.
"A timer?" Erin reaches across and steals one of my fries, completely unapologetic. "What was the timer for?"
"I'm not telling you what the timer was for."
"You just told us about the blindfold."
Poppy grins, all mischief and zero shame. "The blindfold was the appetizer. The timer is the main course and you haven't earned that."
"You can't just say blindfold and timer and then stop," I point out, reaching for another fry before Erin takes them all. "That's cruel."
She always does this, ropes us in with the most entertaining story of the night, lets us dangle, and then decides whether we're worthy of the ending.
"Fine." She sighs like she's doing us a favor. "The timer was for him. He had to make me finish before it went off."
Erin leans forward. "And if he didn't?"
Poppy smiles into her coffee cup, slow and private, like she's somewhere else entirely, somewhere involving Ramsey and that timer.
"He starts over."
"From the beginning?"
"From the very beginning."
Erin sits back, visibly recalculating her evening plans. "I need to buy a timer."
She turns to me then, and I point a fry at her before she can even start.
"Just don't."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were going to say something about my brother and a timer and I could see it forming behind your eyes." I wave the fry at her like a weapon. "Keep it there."
She holds up her hands in surrender, but the look on her face says she's storing it for later. Later is Poppy's problem and I'm perfectly happy with that arrangement.
I pat my stomach and groan. "This is the best and worst meal I've had all week."
"Speaking of," Poppy turns to me, "when's the last time you had sex?"
"Not answering that."
"It's a valid question. You've been here for a while now. You're telling me nobody in this town has caught your attention?"
Erin makes a sound into her coffee that she tries very hard to disguise as a cough. I kick her under the table.
Poppy doesn't miss a beat. "You have had sex, right? No plans of turning into a wilted virgin like Erin here?"
Erin only shrugs at that. She'd waited until twenty-seven to get rid of her virginity. To my brother. A fact I try very hard not to think about, ever, for any reason.
"I've had sex. I like sex. Sex is great."
"Great how?"
"It's sweet and pleasant. Porn has clearly been lying."
The booth goes quiet. Poppy's eyes dart to Erin. Erin raises a brow right back. There's a silent conversation happening between them, lasting maybe three seconds but containing what feels like fourteen paragraphs of judgment.
"Pleasant?" Poppy repeats, like I've just told her I enjoy collecting toenails.
"Yes. Pleasant. It's tingly and warm and nice." I take a sip of my coffee.
"Pleasant," Poppy echoes, like she never heard the word before.
"Lily." Erin sets down her cup like someone about to deliver a TED Talk. "Good sex is all-consuming. It's the kind of thing that rewires your brain and makes you forget your own name. It's..."
I hold up my hands, stopping her before she can finish that sentence. I glare at her with every ounce of revulsion I can muster.
"You shut your mouth, Erin Scott."
She blinks at me, almost hurt. Poppy just chuckles.
"I know exactly where all your experience comes from, thank you very much," I continue, because apparently I need to say this out loud, "and I do not consent to hearing a single word about it. Not one. Not a syllable. Not a facial expression that implies a syllable. You hear me?"
Poppy is shaking now. Both hands over her mouth, shoulders trembling, zero sound coming out.
"That is my brother." I'm still pointing at Erin like she's committed a crime.
"My brother. The man who taught me to ride a bike and packed my lunches and sat on the bathroom floor with me when I had food poisoning in seventh grade.
And whatever you are about to describe him doing to you in a bedroom, I need you to understand that I will literally never recover from it.
I will leave this town. I will change my name. "
"I wasn't going to say anything about the bedroom specifically," Erin says, like I'm the one out of line.
"I'm going to be sick," I say.
"You asked," Erin says, grinning now.
"I did not ask. Poppy asked me. I was sitting here having a pleasant conversation about pleasant sex and you ruined it."
"See, that's the problem,” Poppy says. ”You keep using the word pleasant and it keeps making us sad."
I frown at her. "Sad? What's so sad about pleasant sex?"
"Pleasant is how you describe a walk in the park, Lil. Or a scone."
"I like scones."
"Nobody's saying you can't like scones. We're saying that if a scone is the best comparison you have for sex, then you haven't had the right kind of sex."
I pick up another fry and chew it like I have a point to prove. "Fine. Poppy, you may tell me all kinds of things about Ramsey. As many details as you want. Weird details. Specific details. I'm open to it. In fact, I encourage it."
"Noted." She looks extremely pleased, shooting Erin a smug look.
"You, on the other hand," I turn the fry toward Erin, "I swear to God, if you utter another word about what happens between you and my brother, I will reach across this table and end you."
Erin frowns and sits back, arms crossed, pouting. She is absolutely bursting at the seams to tell me things. That is not going to happen.
"Can I say one thing?"
"No."
"It's not graphic."
"I don't trust you."
"He's really..."
"Erin."
"...good with his hands. In the kitchen. Breakfast. He makes great breakfast." She finishes quickly, throwing her hands up like she's completely innocent.
I throw the fry at her. She catches it and eats it, looking extremely pleased with herself. Poppy is cackling. There's no other word for it. Ruth refills our coffees without being asked and walks away shaking her head. She's heard everything. Oh, well.
"For the record," I say once I've recovered some of my dignity, "I have had perfectly fine sex. Multiple times. With real human men who had all the correct equipment and used it in a satisfactory manner."
"Satisfactory," Poppy repeats.
"Stop repeating my words back to me in that tone."
"What tone?"
"The tone that says you feel sorry for me."
"I don't feel sorry for you." She gives me a very disappointed look. "I feel sorry for your vagina."
I choke on my coffee. It goes up my nose, down my chin, and I'm coughing and sputtering and trying to prevent it from spilling on my shirt while Erin hands me a napkin with a completely straight face. Poppy sits there looking innocent, her most dangerous look.
"Okay. New topic. Immediately."
"Fine." Poppy grins, shimmying her butt on the seat like she's settling in for the good part. "Tell us the latest about Cal."
Erin snorts. "That is not a new topic, Pop. That is the same topic with a different name."
Kind of funny, but I try to play it off. "There's nothing to tell."
"Oh, please." Poppy rolls her eyes. "That man cannot function when you're in the room and you can’t take your eyes off of him. He forgets words. He stares at walls. Last week, he walked into the doorframe right there because you bent down to pick up your bag."
"He did not walk into a doorframe." I say, though I love the idea that he would. I also love the idea that they think Callahan might like me. At least a little.
"He absolutely did. I was there. Ruth saw it too. She didn't even charge him for his coffee because she felt so bad."
Erin is grinning now. "Rome says Cal hasn't been to the pub in weeks. Just goes home, goes for a run, and stays in."
"That has nothing to do with me," I try. "His dad has a broken leg."
"His dad has been walking on crutches for two weeks, Lil."
I pick up another fry and eat it very slowly, refusing to engage. They watch me chew, every single second of it.
"You're blushing," Poppy observes.
"I am not."
"You're the color of a tomato."
"It's hot in here."
"It's March."
"Fine." I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "He's nice to look at. That's it. That's the whole update."
"Nice to look at," Erin repeats. "Hear that, Pop? Everything is just so nice."
"Pleasant, even," Poppy adds, and they both lose it, finding each other so funny they don't need anything or anyone else.
I throw another fry at them, but they're still laughing when the bell above the door chimes.
Poppy's face shifts, just a fraction. Erin goes still beside me, coffee halfway to her mouth. She sits up straighter without a word, and I know immediately who just walked in.
Cherry is standing at the counter in a fitted jacket and jeans that are a shade too tight, ordering something from Ruth with a smile that expects to be smiled back at.
Hair perfect. Makeup perfect. Everything about her polished and deliberate, like she'd assembled herself that morning with a checklist and a plan to torment this town.