Love Is for Losers Wibke Brueggemann (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

recognizes her as the woman who gave him life, because he made proper squeaking noises when she walked in.

The weather was grim, so we just sat around and took more pictures of the nondesigner kittens, which we then put on Instagram, because we still haven’t had a single offer.

We had a big thunderstorm at five, and then it rained and rained and rained, and Emma and I went up to my room and just sat on the bed and looked out of the window.

Then Emma started giggling, and I was like: “What?”

Emma: Remember that day after Sprinkles when Alex suggested you were just like that woman in your class you hate?

Me: Oh God, Miriam Patel. Yes.

Emma (laughing): Your face.

Me: Fuck off.

Emma (laughing, slapping my arm): Honestly, Phoebe, your face …

Me (slapping her arm back):…

Emma (slapping mine again):…

Then, I stabbed her in the ribs with my finger.

Turns out she’s absurdly above average ticklish, so of course I wasn’t going to let that go, and I honestly tickled her until she was begging me to stop and started having the hiccups, which was hilarious.

Then she looked at me through her insanely blue eyes, and everything that had just been wild and chaotic stopped, and it was just us looking at each other.

But, like, really looking, and all I was thinking was: If I knew what you’re thinking, I could say something, but since I don’t, I can’t.

And then I felt her hand brush against mine, which made me jump.

Obviously not because it was unpleasant, because it wasn’t, but because I hadn’t expected it, nor had I seen it coming in my peripheral vision. But Emma totally must have thought that I recoiled in horror, because then she was like: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

And I said: “Yeah, I know, it’s fine.”

But it’s not fine.

Nothing’s fine now.

Did she want to touch my hand? And what would that mean?

11:02 P.M.

It’s still raining.

12:15 A.M.

I’m still awake, but Kate is, too. I just heard her crash-banging in the kitchen. Maybe my insomnia is contagious.

Maybe it’s the rain.

Monday, April 30 #Scandal

Kate and James had sex!

When I said I heard Kate “crash-banging” in the kitchen last night, turns out I heard her actually banging. Banging James.

Oh my God, I’m so glad I stayed in my room. Imagine walking in on something like that. Blech!

It all transpired this morning when I went downstairs.

One of the designer cats sat by the front door, watching one of the half-designer kittens tear something to shreds.

I was like: “Oy, get off that,” but at that point, white fluff was already everywhere.

I shooed the kitten away and discovered that it was eating the inside of a bra; the three-quarter-moon-shaped booster bit that gives extra cleavage.

I followed the trail of fluffy evidence down the hallway and into the living room, where another one of the half-designer kittens was asleep on an actual bra. And since it wasn’t mine, I was like: It’s obviously Kate’s.

So I was thinking: Hmmmm, this is a bit awkward, but she shouldn’t leave her bras lying around.

A moment later, the plot thickened, because the bra wasn’t the only item of clothing that was randomly lying on the floor.

I found a pair of jeans, another pair of jeans, the T-shirt Kate was wearing yesterday, and another T-shirt that looked familiar.

I was just like: OMG.

So I positioned myself in the kitchen where I could see into the hallway, and maybe ten minutes later, I heard Kate’s bedroom door opening and closing, followed by quiet footsteps padding down the stairs.

Me: Good morning, James.

James (jumping up in the air): Oh. Eh. Ah. Uh. Phoebe.

Me: Did you have a good night? Breakfast? I’m having toast.

James: Eh. Yes. Thanks. No.

Me: Why aren’t you talking in full sentences?

James (running his fingers through his hair): Sorry. I … I.

Me (shaking my head, because what happens to people when they’re in love/lust?):…

James (awkwardly rubbing his manly biceps): Kate and I … we … it … ehm … errrrr …

Me: What’s happened to your speech?

James (shaking his head): I … this …

(Enter Kate.)

Me: Tea? Toast?

Kate: You need to go to school.

Me: And miss the afterglow?

Kate: Phoebe …

James (blushing):…

Me: This is so great.

Kate: I … well … it happened.

Me (nodding in a very understanding way):…

Kate: And so … And now you can go to school.

Me (looking from one to the other): Okay. (to James) See you later.

James: Eh. Oh. Uh. Ah.

I casually walked out of the house, humming, and then I texted Emma.

Found James in our house this morning. He and Kate had sex.

She texted back straightaway:

Finally!!!

I was just like:

Really? You saw this coming?

Emma texted back:

OMG, Phoebe, it was so obvious.

Was it? Because I thought there was a tragic love triangle going on where Kate fancied James who fancied Emma who fancied Luke Skywalker (who turns out to be her actual brother, who is now dead). And does that make it an incestuous love square? And why am I even joking about it?

I must be broken the way Mr. Data from Star Trek was broken, unable to even observe the obvious.

I think the only way they could fix Data in the end was to take out the emotion chip. The equivalent for me would be futuristic neurosurgery. But to be honest, at this point in my life, I’m game.

PS: I wonder what’s going to happen now. I mean with James.

Was it a one-off, or are Kate and him all official now? Is he going to move in? Do I have to spend every moment I usually spend with just Kate with James as well? We’d be, like, the weirdest patchwork family in history.

Maybe I should write a book about it, except no one would believe it.

I wonder what Mum’s going to say when she finds out Kate’s having sex with someone who could be her own son.

I’m not ageist, obviously, but lots of people are.

I hope Kate doesn’t forget about me.

If they get married and have babies, I’ll have to give up my room in her house.

Mum’s going to have to let me stay on my own, but I’ll be