Page 9 of The Do-Over

“Anyway, she came in and ended up staying the night.”

I shot up, tossing a handful of potato chips on the floor in the process “You slept with her?”

“Not like that. We just slept, that’s all. I put her to bed after she calmed down and then she asked me to stay with her.”

“So, no sexy times?” I asked. Not that I was all that interested in Mathais or Phee’s love lives, but I’d always secretly hoped the two of them would find each other. So many times over the years, I’d been certain Phee reciprocated Mathias’s feelings. Then someone shinier (and older and more powerful) would come along and she’d get distracted.

“No sex, just sleep. But in the morning, she got out of there like my bed was on fire.” He sat up and set his elbows on his knees, dangling his hands between his splayed legs. “I almost,” he slid his eyes toward me, “told her how I felt.”

“Maybe she feels the same way?”

He snorted. “I know my place. I am firmly in the friend zone. She probably sees a giant blinking sign and skulls-and-crossbones when she’s around me.”

“That’s really sad.”

Mathias leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You smell good, and you have great skin and you’re smart and you make me laugh. Why can’t I love you?”

I blinked.

“I mean, I love you but I’m not in love with you.” He took a deep swig of wine and wiped his mouth with a grimace. “I sound like a character in a cheesy romantic comedy.”

“We’d be adorable. We could call ourselves Percias.”

Mathias’s nose crinkled. “Sounds like a foot disease.”

“I love you, too.”

Life would be a lot easier if the two of us could fall in love. We’d tried it a couple of years ago. Our “relationship” had lasted all of seventeen seconds. Mathias had asked if he could kiss me. I’d said yes and what happened next was the most awkward, disturbing kiss of my life. We’d broken apart and agreed to never speak of it again.

Besides, he had met Phee first, and, like a lost baby bird, he’d imprinted on her. I’d asked him once what this magic was my sister held over him and he’d shrugged and said, “I wish I knew.”

On television, the host’s voice cut through my thoughts: “…most common New Year’s resolutions? Anyone want to take a guess?”

Another host, an ultra-thin girl who starred in some ultra-popular angsty teenager show, hummed. “Losing weight?”

“Correct. That includes working out and eating healthier. Next guess?”

“Psft.” I tossed a balled-up napkin in the general direction of the television.

Every New Year’s, I made a deal with myself to lose forty pounds and get bikini-ready. I knew how to lose weight—the basic principles weren’t rocket science—but I could never quite do it for more than a few pounds before I gave up.

I slugged back more wine and chased it with a handful of chips. Some of them made it in my mouth, others down the front of my shirt, and one definitely disappeared into my bra. Saving it for later.

Mathias’s head flopped onto my shoulder. “What does that asshole have that I don’t? Joel Asshole Allen. That’s his new name.”

“I like it. It suits him.”

The third guest, the lead singer of a pop group, squinted. He had on more eyeliner than I wore in a year. “A new hobby?”

The host nodded, full-wattage television smile in place. “That’s also on the list.”

Hobbies? Let’s talk about hobbies for a minute. I’d tried those too. From the time I could walk, Mom had thrown me into various and sundry hobbies, hoping one would stick—ballet, art classes, piano, soccer, Girl Scouts, flag team. I stank at all of them. As an adult, I’d tried others—cooking, a second language, gardening, soapmaking, and one disastrous afternoon, woodworking.

Something was wrong with me. Normal people could find one measly thing they were good at. But not me. I’d made all these resolutions and still never turned into a better version of myself.

“I think I’m broken,” I said, cuddling the bottle of wine to my chest like it was my firstborn. “That must be the problem.”

Mathias slung an arm around me. “You aren’t broken.”