Page 4 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

“I’m only trying to help,” he answers.

“Fuck you,” I huff out.

“Do you speak to your mother with that mouth?” he asks politely.

“Do you fuck your mother with your idiot brain?” I snap into my phone.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he answers.

“I hate you.”

“Well, I’m still here for you,” he responds.

“I’m done talking to you,” I growl.

“I don’t understand, ‘I’m done talking to you.’ But I could search the web for it.”

“Ugh,” I groan as I throw my phone in my purse. “Don’t bother!”

I find myself glaring at the red light before me for no other reason than I’m pissed at Oliver, which is what I named my Siri because Siri isn’t a suitable name for a hot man from down under—even if he is an idiot.

“It looks like high sixties,” Loïc says with a deep chuckle.

I turn to find his amused face. If he wasn’t so gorgeous, I’d probably be annoyed with the current smirk, but it makes him even more adorable, so I’ll take it.

He’s holding up his phone to show me the little chart with all the sun pictures and temperatures, which all appear to be between sixty-seven and sixty-nine degrees. Yes! Beats the high thirties we’ve been having in Michigan. It’s unseasonably cold for November this year.

“Well, isn’t your Droid so smart?” I say in a snooty voice for dramatic flair.

Loïc and I go back and forth over which is better—a Droid or iPhone. I’d argue to death that an iPhone is better, but let’s face it; Oliver isn’t too bright.

“I’ve told you this a million times. There’s no comparison.” He shrugs, a smug expression now residing on his face. “Tell me again why your Siri is an Australian man?”

“Because the real Siri was a bitch, and I was sick of hearing her. So, I programmed the phone to use Oliver’s voice instead. He might not be much smarter, but he’s definitely more enjoyable to listen to. I love his accent.”

“Ah, that’s right. Where am I going again?”

“Twenty-three to fourteen to two hundred seventy-five to ninety-six,” I rattle off the highway names once more.

“Are you sure you can’t find what you need at the mall that’s, like, five minutes away? Is the hour drive worth it?”

“Um, yes, it is totally worth it. It’s the only decent place to shop around here.”

Loïc agreed to come shopping with me today. Paige is usually my partner in crime, but she’s working overtime on some promotion she’s doing for her new job. She’s really been working her tail off to impress her new employer.

Loïc and I are leaving for California on Thursday to go visit my sister at Stanford for a long weekend. New outfits are a must.

“Your enthusiasm for shopping is kind of a flaw,” Loïc says, humor lining his voice.

“Oh, yeah? Well, I think your lack of enthusiasm for all things shopping is a huge flaw,” I quip in return.

Loïc’s deep laughter fills the cab of his truck, and I can’t stop the huge grin that crosses my face.

I take in the familiar sights—buildings, exits, signs—as Loïc speeds down the interstate. A new sensation comes over me, one that I don’t know I’ve ever experienced in my entire life—the feeling of being at home. I’ve lived in so many places in my life, and with each one came the understanding that it was only temporary. My mom always told me that home was where the people you loved were, not a name on a map. I’ve never considered a particular place home—until now. Michigan is my home.

I have a job that I love, writing freelance pieces for a local online news outlet. I love my roommate and best friend, Paige. The house where we’ve lived together since we moved out of the dorms two years ago feels like a home should—familiar, happy, and safe. And then there’s Loïc. I can’t believe it’s only been six months since I first saw his muddy-as-hell truck drive up to the sorority car wash last May.

In the timeline of life, six months is a blink of an eye, but for Loïc and me, it seems like so much longer. We’ve both gotten over some major hurdles since then. We’ve changed so much. I know I have other ways in which I need to grow as a person, to change into a better version of myself. I’m not perfect, and Loïc’s not either. Yet, somehow, our imperfections work seamlessly together to make our flaws into something more. More compassion. More love. More understanding. Simply more.

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