“Please stop talking,” I grumble.
“Why?” she asks, wide-eyed and innocent. “Watching you two try to pretend like this isn’t slowly killing you is the best entertainment I’ve had in months, and that’s saying a lot, considering the fact I’m dating a guy named Blayke.”
Poppy bites her lip to keep from laughing, which makes everything worse.
“You’re both so emotionally constipated,” Georgia adds. “It’s honestly impressive. Like, are you allergic to communication? Should I get you both a chalkboard and a safe word?”
“Georgia,” I warn.
“What?” She shrugs. “All I’m saying is one of you should probably say somethingbeforeshe signs a lease and you die alone surrounded by your hockey trophies.”
I need my sister to stop talking.
I shoot her a look that could fry her eyebrows clean off. She sips her coffee like it’s tea.
Poppy clears her throat, clearly trying to escape this kitchen with her dignity intact. “I’m going to, uh—eat this in my room so I can start getting dressed.”
I nod robotically, humiliated by my little sister.
Georgia waves at her as she retreats into the hallway. “Have fun pretending you’re not already in love!”
“What is wrong with you?! Seriously!”
“I’m nudging you toward your destiny.”
“That makes no sense.”
She sets down her mug. “Listen. I know you—you don’t have casual sex. You don’t sleep with random women.”
“How do you know?”
Georgia gives me the most dramatic eye roll in sibling history. “Because I know your vibe. You’re a monogamous golden retriever in a defenseman’s body. You don’t do flings. You do forehead kisses and Sunday brunch and Spotify playlists that say ‘thinking of you.’”
“I do not?—”
“You brought Sam Simpson a smoothie once because she was sad about her hamster dying.”
“I was in high school—how do you remember that?”
She ignores me, plowing on with her assessment of the situation. “You’re in love with her, Turner. And if you let herwalk out that door without saying something, I’m going to personally help her move out and then comfort her while you waste away in your emotionally barren man cave.”
I stare blankly at the floor.
Georgia grabs her mug again and rises from the table with the confidence of someone who’s cracked the final level of a sibling’s denial. “You should tell her before she signs a lease.”
“Yeah?” I mutter. “What should I say?”
She pats me on the shoulder as she passes. “Start with ‘don’t go.’ End with ‘I’m in love with you and I can’t keep pretending I’m not.’ Maybe cry a little if you can manage it.”
poppy
. . .
Here’s the thing about tryingnotto catch feelings for your roommate: it becomes significantly harder when he agrees on coming with you to look at new apartments.
Especially when the only reason you’relookingis because sleeping with said roommate has officially crossed into an emotionally complicated conflict of interest.
“This place better be terrible,” he mutters as I turn into the complex.
