Her expression softens, but it’s still sadder than I’d like. “You are too good, Zach.”
It’s not the first time someone’s told me that. That’s what I was taught to be: a good person, someone who gives people what they need.
“Can we just...keep doing this for now?” DeeDee asks. “Can we keep seeing each other like this without making it more yet? I want to feel ready.”
“Of course.”
“And is it okay if we do not tell anyone?”
A bolt of pain runs through me. I’m ready to shout that DeeDee Beausoleil is mine from the rooftops of Montreal. I’d also shout the news that I’m hers, but I’ve accepted the fact that everyone seems to have known that for a long time. Hearing that she doesn’t feel the same urge to make wild and totally pre-emptive proclamations is a bit of a sucker punch to my pride.
Still, that can wait. It can all wait. This is more important.
“My lips are sealed,” I inform her. “Although not gonna lie, everyone is going to know something is up with me. I haven’t got that great of a poker face.”
“You have a cute face.” She strokes my cheek. “I really, really like it.”
“Imagine that. I really, really like your face too.”
She pulls me down for a kiss, and I hope Valérie has headphones on or something because we are about to head into round four.
* * *
“Brother dearest!It is I! Returned from a far land!”
Hope sprints across the arrivals area, brown hair flying and thin limbs flailing with her glasses slightly askew. She abandons her suitcase halfway to where I’m standing and leaps into my arms to tackle me with a hug that almost knocks me over.
“Hey, tiger.” I hold her tight before depositing her back on her feet. “Ugh, you’re heavy.”
“Asshole.” She punches my shoulder. “What’s with your beard?”
“What do you mean what’s with my beard?”
“You look like a farmer.”
I drop my arms to my sides and throw my head back to proclaim to the ceiling. “Whydoes everyone say that?”
“Because it’s true. Don’t worry; it’s cute.”
Hope skips away to pick her bag up and starts leading the way out of the terminal.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I ask as she forges on ahead of me.
“I’ll figure it out.”
That’s Hope for you, always rushing headfirst into whatever situation she finds herself in, acting fast and only asking questions once she’s stuck.
She got stuck—literally—every second day when we were kids. I was always pulling her out of crawlspaces or tunnels or whatever totally dysfunctional object she decided would make a good flotation device. She once jumped into a lake with three battery-powered fans strapped to her back, thinking they would help her swim faster.
They did not.
We take the bus back into the city, and Hope talks non-stop about how things are going in Halifax. She’s in the middle of finishing her undergrad, and she’s the lacrosse star of the campus. She answers my brotherly and slightly menacing questions about her boyfriend and has just finished telling me about all the drama in the lives of her three roommates when we get off the bus and switch to the metro that will take us to my place.
“So!” she exclaims, loud enough to turn the heads of half the people in the metro car. “Tell me about you!”
“Ah, me.” I shrug. “Same old, same old.”
“Zach!” she complains.
