“Shut up,” I sniffed. “Lacey just looks like Megan Fox. I look more like Ellen Page. With glasses.”
My brother took a swig of beer. “Ellen Page is cute.”
“Yes. I agree. But she cannot compete with Megan Frickin’ Fox.”
“Ellen is far too wise to try to compete with Megan,” Luke said sagely. “The Megan Fox man isn’t the Ellen Page man.”
“Ellen Page isn’t even into men,” I pointed out.
“That’s not the point.”
I took another swig of beer and sighed. “I wish I was gay. Maybe Ellen Page would like me.”
He gave my forehead an affectionate thump. “You can’t wish yourself gay.”
“I know.”
Luke must have heard the defeat in my tone because he patted my shoulder and added, “Look, if Dr. Dumbass didn’t appreciate how great you are, he doesn’t deserve you as a partner.”
I rolled my eyes. “Call the cliché police. You’re going to jail tonight. Next you’ll tell me that what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”
He tilted his beer bottle toward me. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
My mouth quirked a little. “I swear to God. I will slap you.”
He patted me on the head. “You’re mean.”
“You’re not the first person who’s told me that. But, I’m serious, Luke.” I squeezed the beer bottle between both hands. “What if Harrison falls madly in love with Lacey Lewis? She’s gorgeous, and they’ve been spending a lot of time together.”
Luke rested his forearm on the top of his head and leaned back on the sofa. “So what? Breaking up with Harrison wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. You could find someone just as good, if not better.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” I said wryly, rubbing my eye beneath my glasses. “There are scores of men out there looking for short neat-freak history professors who are a little too into nineteenth-century England.”
“Well, you’re not going to find any if you keep using words like ‘scores.’ If I were you, I’d also eschew the words ‘fortnight’ and ‘daresay’ from your vocabulary while you’re at it.”
He nearly made me laugh by using the word ‘eschew,’ but I wasn’t in a laughing mood. I was in a moping mood. I was firmly into mopery. “Be serious, Luke. Harrison was the only man I’ve ever met who wasn’t a hundred years old and actually had an opinion on the proper way to tie a cravat circa 1815.”
“Jesus. And you’re sorry he might be into another woman?” But he grinned at me and pushed my shoulder with his cold beer bottle.
I managed a halfhearted smile. “We’re supposed to get married.” I took another swig of beer. It tasted good. I’d missed it. “We’ve been together for nearly three years!”
“Yeah, I know, and he’s a nice enough guy, but you have to admit he buttons his shirt too high. And I swear he uses starch.”
I blinked at him. “What’s wrong with starch?”
“Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
“I’m thirty-one,” I moaned, pressing the side of my face against the cushion. “I’m supposed to have my first child by the time I’m thirty-three and the second when I’m thirty-five.”
My brother’s forehead puckered into a deep frown. “Whaa? Says who?”
“Says me. Says life. Says my day planner. My list of goals. Harrison meets all of my criteria on my Future Husband Checklist. If we were to break up, I would have to start all over again, and—”
“Whoa. You actually have this crap written down somewhere?” He pulled the cushion away from me.
“Of course I do. We’re supposed to get engaged by the end of this year. I’m supposed to get tenure by the time I reach thirty-two in June, and have the kids after a year married.”
Luke whistled. “Wow. You’re even loonier than I thought. I don’t even want to know what a Future Husband Checklist is. Besides, did you notice you didn’t even mention the most important word in all of this?”
It was my turn to frown. “What?”
“Love,” he said, batting his eyelashes at me. “L.O.V.E. You sound like you’re only upset because you’d have to start over, not because the love of your life is with another woman.”
I gasped and blinked at him. “Of course I love Harrison.” Wasn’t love implied when you planned on marrying someone?
“Do you, Meg? Do you really?” Luke asked in the most father-like, serious tone I’d probably ever heard from him.
I searched around for a coaster so I could set my beer bottle on the table next to me. It gave me a minute to collect my thoughts. “First, I refuse to take advice about love from someone who doesn’t even believe in the word, and second, it’s perfectly acceptable to have goals. That doesn’t make me a bad person.” With my free hand, I pulled the pillow back from Luke and bopped him on the head with it. “How are you supposed to accomplish things in life if you don’t have them written down?”
“Well, my band is playing for one of the biggest talent scouts in Nashville in a couple of weeks, and I promise you I never wrote that down.”
I shook my head at his smug smile. I couldn’t explain to a non-writer-downer why writing things down was so important. Especially when adorable matching office supplies and journals and colored pens were involved. Believe me. I’d tried arguing such points before. It was like Napoleon at Waterloo, a losing battle. “The point is that now my entire schedule is ruined, and I’m going to have to start over.”
“It’s life, Meggie.” Luke drained his beer and gave me a hard look. “It’s not a schedule. You need to chill.”
I hugged my throw pillow again. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Chill. You know, sit around in your underwear and read books. Not textbooks and not history books, but the kind of books that you find fun. You know…fun?”
“History books are fun!” I insisted.
“To nerds. What about romance novels? You used to like to read those, didn’t you?”
I sucked in my breath. Luke remembered that I liked romance novels? Had he been snooping on my e-reader? I hadn’t admitted reading a romance novel to anyone except Ellie in over fifteen years. Anyway, Luke was just muddying the waters. He was missing the point. I shoved my finger accusingly toward the book he’d left on the coffee table. “You’re reading War and Peace and you’re calling me a nerd?”
“Touché.” He grinned at me.
I pushed my palms against my thighs, stood, retrieved the trash bag, and continued cleaning the room. Luke stood to help me, but I waved him away. “No. Let me. It’ll keep my mind off my failure.”
He shook his head. “It isn’t a failure, Meg.”
I barely glanced back at him. “Don’t you have a gig or something tonight? Leave me to mope and clean in peace.” Mope and Clean in Peace. That would be a great name for my future nonexistent autobiography.
“Nope. No gig tonight, but I am playing poker with the guys in about an hour.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. He’d probably busted his cell phone again. Luke didn’t own a watch. He didn’t believe in them. Harrison had often mentioned it. He seemed flabbergasted by the notion.