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Claire bites her lip. “Don’t be mad …”
“What?” I squint. “Why would you say that?”
“I kind of … sort of … already invited her to meet us here.” She shrugs her shoulders, winces, and laughs. “And she just walked in, so act cool.”
Before I get a chance to respond, Claire stands and waves the guest of honor to our table.
“Hannah!” Claire traipses out from behind the table and hugs a girl with mousy brown hair and shifty eyes partially obscured by oversized, thick-rimmed glasses. She’s tall, thin, flat as a board on all sides. The instant our gazes meet, her pale complexion turns ruddy, and her stare flicks to the candle centerpiece.
I haven’t said a word, and already I make her nervous.
Doesn’t matter how “sweet” someone is, a severe lack of confidence is a deal breaker.
“Hannah, this is my brother, Cainan,” Claire introduces us when Hannah takes the seat next to me. She smells like baby powder and drugstore perfume marketed to teenagers—a peculiar combination. “Cainan, this is Hannah. She just moved into our building last month.”
“What’s your drink?” I ask, but only because the girl is fucking trembling and she clearly needs something to calm her nerves. Hell, I need something extra to calm my nerves with all this shaking-poodle energy she’s putting off.
“Oh. Um. Water is fine. I don’t drink alcohol.” Her voice is barely audible in the crowded bar.
“You don’t want to jazz it up a bit? Maybe make it sparkling water? Add a lime or something?” Claire teases.
Luke flags down a server and holds up four fingers. “Can we get a round of waters?”
He’s trying to make her more comfortable, but this entire thing is getting more painful by the second.
Hannah reaches for a napkin on the table and begins shredding it into tiny pieces.
Luke, Claire, and I exchange looks.
“Hannah’s from Boise,” Claire announces out of the blue. “She came here because she wanted a change of pace, isn’t that right?”
Hannah nods.
“You went to Idaho State,” Claire says to her, though this information is directed at me. “Studied finance and accounting.”
Hannah nods. Again.
“You can talk, Han. He doesn’t bite,” Luke flashes a wide grin.
Han? Are they on a nickname basis?
Hannah’s gaze flicks up at him, then back to the pile of napkin shreds on the table. I don’t know what my sister was thinking inviting her here tonight, but I have to admit, it’s amusing watching Claire try to salvage this shit show.
“Hannah’s cousin is the director of that musical … The Emerald Canary,” Claire says. “The one that’s impossible to get tickets to. I think they’re going to make it into a movie, right?”
“Y … yes,” Hannah finally speaks.
“They’re roommates,” Claire adds. “I’ve been dying to meet him, but his work schedule is insane. Hannah says she doesn’t even see him half the time.”
Good God, this is agonizing.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
“Could you … excuse me for a moment?” Hannah sweeps the pile of shredded paper into her hand, grabs her purse, and scurries off to the bathroom like the shivering mouse that she is.
The instant she disappears inside, I grab my coat.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Claire reaches across the table, a feeble attempt to stop me. “You can’t just leave. What are we supposed to tell Hannah when she comes back?”
I shrug. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. This is your mess to clean up, not mine. And please, for the love of God, stop trying to set me up. It never ends well for anyone involved.”
Retrieving a twenty from my wallet, I place it in the center of the table.
Claire sighs, turning to her husband, and they exchange a wordless look, like I’m the asshole here.
I’d do anything for my sister—she’s the only family I give a damn about. And while she can be a thorn in my side, she’s my thorn. But I won’t suffer through another minute of this.
If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past six months, it’s that life is too short. It shouldn’t be wasted. And if you’re going to waste it, at least waste it with the right person.
Sorry, Hannah …
You’re not her.
Ten minutes later, I’m two blocks from my apartment when I spot Serena McQuiston waiting at a crosswalk.
“Serena,” I call out. She turns toward my voice, and I wave her down. “What are you doing all the way up here?”
I’ve known Serena since my freshman year at Montclair, when she spotted my best friend, Grant, and decided she had to have him. Grant, ever the opportunist, decided to make her his official fuck buddy.
“Just met some friends for dinner. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since …” her voice trails and her gaze averts. “You doing okay?”
“Better than ever,” I lie. There are people who deserve to hear the truth and then there are people like Serena who pretend to care but only truly give a shit about things that involve them. “You seeing Grant when he comes this week?”
