Page 19 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

Georgia scoffs, “Yeah, like, almost a week ago.”

“Oh my goodness! Where did I go wrong with you two?” Mrs. Wright shakes her head.

“Hey! Don’t lump me in with Georgia. I’m in a relationship,” London protests.

Mrs. Wright lets out a sigh. “Let’s go, Georgia. You could stand a conversation with some people with class.”

“Hey, I’m offended. How do you know my booty call, Ben, doesn’t have class, Mom? And he’s religious, too. He’s always calling out to God when he’s in my bed. It’s very sweet,” Georgia says seriously.

London bends over in laughter.

I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. This entire exchange is comical. I don’t know how I expected London’s family dynamic to be, but it wasn’t like this.

“Come on, Georgia,” Mrs. Wright says wearily.

“Just go,” London urges with a giggle. “You’re causing Mom to age, like, ten years right in front of us.”

“Fine, but I’m talking toPatrick Peterson,”she says his name in a nasally voice, “for only five minutes, and if his fingers go anywhere near his nose, I’m throwing this glass of wine at him.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t picking his nose, honey. He was probably itching it. And he was fifteen. Cut him some slack,” Mrs. Wright says.

“Exactly. He was fifteen. I was eight, and I knew that picking your nose in front of someone was disgusting! And then he just continued eating his hamburger without washing his hands first!”

Georgia and Mrs. Wright continue to argue about the apparent nose-picking incident as they walk away.

“Wow,” I say to London.

“I know.”

“Your family is awesome, especially Georgia.”

“Yeah, she’s a feisty one. Everyone adores her. She has next to zero filter and can be so crude, but everyone loves her. There’s just something endearing about her.”

“Maybe because she’s so different than everyone here. She’s like a breath of fresh air.”

“Hey, just because people have money doesn’t mean that they all walk around with sticks up their butts. There are some cool people here.”

“Really? Besides your family, who?”

“Uh, Patrick Peterson. He’s a surgeon. Duh,” she says in a valley girl voice.

I let out a chuckle. “Yeah, well, he picks his nose, which cancels out the cool doctor thing he has going on.”

She shrugs. “True. So, let’s go look at more art, shall we?” She hands me a water before taking a sip of her wine. “Mmm, this is good. It must be made out of golden grapes.”

London entwines her free hand through mine as we weave through the crowd of elaborately dressed people to look at the different art pieces.

One thing’s for sure; London and I do not have the same taste in art or even the same perspective. Sure, we both recognize the painting of a chair to be just that—a painting of a chair—yet London thinks it represents loneliness, whereas I think it represents dinnertime.

“Okay, what about this one?” London asks.

We stand in front of an abstract painting with lots of splattered colors, some wavy lines, and tons of paint dribbles.

When I don’t answer, she continues, “I think the artist is trying to represent a state of joy in a life filled with chaos. There’s something happy and sorrowful about it at the same time, you know?”

I tilt my head to the side and really look at the painting. “I think the artist is a four-year-old from the local preschool.”

London laughs. “Stop! Really, try to see something.”

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