Confession Time
Emma
Still reeling from seeing Dylan—how is it that his brother and Sage are friends and I didn’t have a clue—I follow him up the bleachers, holding my long dress out of the way so I don’t make a fool of myself in front of Sage’s friends. I know she’s proud of my study, but no girl wants her big sister to be a cheerleader. When she was able to express her opinions verbally, Sage made it known she couldn’t respect a woman who earned moneythrough her body or beauty. She wants to be known for her brains, and she’ll only respect my contribution to society once I do something with my college degree.
Yeah. My sister has opinions, and I can’t wait to be at the sharp end of her tongue again.
“These seats okay?” Dylan asks, motioning to a vacant row. We’re off to the side in the dead zone. No other parents or families are close by, but we still have a clear view of the pool. “We can cheer as loudly as we want from here without embarrassing them.”
“You cheer for your brother?”
“If I don’t, who will?” Dylan grins, and I can tell he’s as proud of his little brother as I am of Sage. “He might have been forced to be my first fan, but I love showing up for him. It’s the best way I can show him that I accept him no matter what he does.”
He speaks so passionately about his brother that I almost forget how to breathe. I change the subject back to something safe before the day’s emotions can overtake me. Sage slept through the night without waking, but we both had our share of tears before leaving the apartment this morning. Her first swim meet without our parents cheering her on in embarrassing fashion. I’m not even a poor substitute. Forcing a smile and hoping Dylan can’t differentiate between my real and fake, I say, “Who do you think will play at the Grand Final?” The half time performance is always a conversation starter or killer.
“I hope an Australian band.” We twist to see the pool, but when Dylan’s arm sneaks down my back to wrap around my waist, it feels both natural and right. With his nondescript baseball cap and dark glasses, he could be any brother or father. “Preferably rock.”
“Ooh, what about grunge rocker, Rok Steele?”
“Don’t let Dawson hear you say that.” Dylan laughs. “You know his ex-girlfriend-maybe-girlfriend is playing ‘who’s the daddy’and the two options are Dawson and Rok Steele.”
“Are you telling me Randii is in a love triangle with a rock star and a rugby star?”
“First, don’t call it rugby—we are rugby league or league. Second, I didn’t think you knew Randii?”
“I watched her onAustralian Love Storywhen she met Dawson.“ I know I’m fangirling, but who didn’t fall in love with Dawson and Randii? “I thought they were cute together and hated that they tried to give her the slut edit.”
“Keep talking like that and you’ll win Dawson over.”
“I’m just being real. She has been linked to some of the most iconic bands and rock stars—but she keeps it classy like the British Royals. She never gives statements, she never acknowledges what’s truth and what’s bullshit.”
“Maybe, if she did, they’d back the fuck off.” Dylan shakes his head. “I mean, any time they are photographed together, the social media trolls are vicious.”
“That’s because she doesn’t fit the mold of a perfect WAG. She’s stunning, but not in a model way. She’s been the muse for countless songs but doesn’t want to be an influencer or trade on her connections. Women don’t understand her, and since the media can’t use her, they try to destroy her.” Did I just give a sermon about a woman I don’t know? Yeah. But it’s how I feel and Dylan can either deal, or not.
“You’ve thought a lot about that.”
I shrug, a little embarrassed at how passionately I defended a woman I’ve never met. “Just saying, Rok Steele is a hot as fuck grunge rocker and if rugby league can convince him to perform at the grand final, the only thing better would be if the Southern Mavericks were in the grand final.”
“Now that’s my girl.” Dylan squeezes me in for a hug that looks platonic to any observer, but feels … electrifying. My skin burns where he’s touching me, and I can’t help wishing we could spend the day as a couple—not hiding our feelings in front of our siblings or the world. Is that too much to ask?
“How long has Sage been competing?” Dylan asks as the girls line up. I’ve been so engrossed in our conversation, I don’t even know which heat she’s about to compete in.
“She used to compete before … well, before everything changed … and we moved to Sydney.” Dylan doesn’t push for more, and I’m grateful. Instead, we fall into comfortable silence as the official starts the race. I barely hear the buzzer over the pounding in my chest. I’m so damn proud of Sage. She’s out there, doing what she loves. She’s finding her place in the world on her terms. From the number of tweens who fill our apartment, she has just as many friends here as she did back home, and Saxon didn’t make a big deal about her not talking. Twelve-year-olds can be cruel and judgmental, but Emma is being accepted for who she is while being true to herself.
If only we could get past the night screams.
“Go, Sage,” Dylan yells from next to me.
“Sage, Sage, Sage,” I scream, even though no one can hear us over the sounds of other parents. My sister moves through the lane with grace, keeping up with the pace setters to the wall, but turning stronger. She comes out a whisker ahead.
“Keep going, Sage. Keep going.” I hope she doesn’t burn out or fade away. “Come on, Sage.”
“She’s fast,” Dylan murmurs.
“She was state champion for her age group two years ago.” The pride in my voice surprises me.That was before the accident. Before she stopped talking. Before everything fell apart.
Sage touches the wall in second place, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Not first place, but she finished.After last night’s meltdown, my sister is my hero. She is a baby dragon. She has more fight in her than you’d find in an octagon. I’m so proud of her that I want to scream loud enough to take off the roof.
