I retreat to the bathroom to the sounds of her laughter. Gretchen Fisher just made me come in my pants.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?”My words land softly in the warm silence between us as I stroke the arm Gretchen has draped across my ribs.
After dinner, we cuddled on the couch to watchPitch Perfect, singing along to every song and laughing way too hard at all of the most quotable one-liners.
Keeping to the silly terms of our thermostat agreement, before we climbed in bed, she cranked it down to sixty-eight degrees right before she threw on one of my hoodies, donned a pair of fuzzy socks—a look I’m unexpectedly feral for—and crawled under the covers. When I followed a few minutes later, she draped her body around me like a sloth on a branch in an effort to keep warm.
Five minutes and anI told you solater, shared body warmth worked its magic and Gretchen peeled the hoodie off, leaving her in a tank top and shorts, her feet still clad in fuzzy socks woven between my legs.
“A little,” she replies. “It helps knowing you’ll be there, though.”
Then I’ll be there, all the time, everywhere, for all the things,I want to say. She doesn’tneedme when she tells her parents and Drew about her family in Arizona. She’s strong and brave all on her own. Even still, any chance I get to be the person by her side, you won’t find me anywhere else. Not anymore.
“Don’t forget the rules when we’re in front of Mom, Dad and Drew, old man.”
I assure her I’ll be on my best behavior, but make a mental note to text Drew in the morning about meeting up for drinks next week. I’ve made excuses, kept secrets and locked my feelings away long enough. The right time to tell him would have been three years ago, but I can’t rewrite the past no matter how much I wish I could.
It’s time for me to tell my best friend that I’m hopelessly in love with his sister.
Chapter Forty-Four
I CAN EXPLAIN
Gretchen
The restaurantmy parents chose is swarming with people. And because I underestimated the time it would take to walk here from Connor’s place, I’m late.
A rush of air hits my back as I attempt to peek around the mass of people crowding the hostess station. A moment later, the front door closes behind me with athud.
“Thank God. You’re late, too.”
I turn to Drew with a mischievous smile. “I think it’s the hostess’ fault.”
Drew lifts up on his toes to spot the innocent perpetrator. “Let the mousey girl who looks overwhelmed and not a day over sixteen take the fall?” He arches a brow. “Cutthroat. I like it.”
The throng of people inches forward, pulling Drew and I along.
“How’s Reagan?”
“As good as can be expected. And by good, I mean she kicked me out this morning because—and I’m paraphrasing—for the love of God if I don’t stop hovering she’s gonna smother me in my sleep.Andif I don’t bring home mac and cheese and chocolate cake, I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
I chuckle. “I always knew I liked her.”
“If I’m missing come morning, there was definitely foul play involved. She can’t be trusted.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe she called me and I helped her hide your body?”
Drew’s shoulders sag, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as his body quakes in silent, pitiful laughter. “That’s so morbid, Gretch. Why am I laughing?”
Drew’s always been a fixer, which is noble, but it can also be suffocating. Even I can tell that he’s emotionally and physically spent. Whether his laughter comes from a legitimately funny or maniacally exhausted place, he needs permission to laugh. Reagan may have lovingly kicked him out this morning, but I think Drew needed space, too.
We inch forward a few more steps, finally reaching the hostess who directs us to our parents’ table around the corner along the back wall of the restaurant.
Drew motions for me to walk ahead of him. Chivalry? One would think, but no. When the familiar cringe-worthy buzzing sound lands against my ear—the product of my mutinous brother’s thumb and index finger rubbing together in that way he learned when we were kids—the hair on my arms stands up, body twitching. I spin on a dime and pummel my fist into his bicep. “Ugh, you’re infuriating.”
He cackles and rakes a hand over my scalp before I’m able to turn back around. I glare at him over my shoulder as I smooth a hand over my hair. “You are such a loser!” I grit.
“Children,” Dad interrupts our squabble. “Nice to see you haven’t lost that pre-pubescent petty charm about you.” His tone is affectionate if not a little chastising.
