My heart softens at his admission. “Ronan, no, let it out. It’s good for you. Speaking your truth puts it in the universe so you can conquer it later.”
He turns and looks at me. His eyes shut. “The things you say . . . I’ve missed you—”
I sigh, interrupting him. “Ronan, I’m here for you as a friend, but . . .”
“Let me finish.” He inhales a deep breath, then swallows. “Nova, that night in New York, when we met, I think I f—” He stops abruptly, his hands clenched as he stares at the floor.
I manage a smile, unsure of what he’s trying to say, as my stomach churns with more nausea. “It was a tumultuous experience for both of us. Can we put a pin in this?”
“Are you okay?” He rushes over to me.
“The quiche isn’t going to keep me down.”
He searches my face, then nods. “Okay. I’m sure you’re right.” He drops the lid on the toilet. “Get in and shower, Princess. I’ll sit here in case you need me.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m out. He stood outside the door while I dried off, then grabbed me an old NYU sleep shirt. My wet hair hangs around my face in a tangled mess as I walk to my vanity. I sit, and he brushes out my hair, then holds my arm as we walk to the bed. He whips back the covers on the left, and I slide inside. He tucks them around me.
He holds up the Art of War on my nightstand. “Are you reading it?”
“Don’t be weird about it.”
He gives me a half smile. “What’s your favorite part?”
“The part about musical notes and colors and tastes. How there’s only a handful of each, yet they each produce millions of sounds, hues, and flavors.”
“I know the one.”
“Of course you do. Your brain . . .” I mimic something exploding.
He smiles, then fiddles with a picture of me and Mama and Sabine on my nightstand. “You deserve all the wonderful things in the world, Nova. I’m not it.”
Our eyes cling. His words were soft, and I heard the ring of truth in them—that he believes. I don’t allow the sadness and disappointment I feel to surface. I push them down because I do deserve something awesome. And someday I’ll have it.
I pull my hand out of the covers and take his. “Hey. Here’s another quote I like, just for you. There’s a thousand battles and a thousand victories, and through it all, you must believe in yourself . . . and stuff like that. It’s not exact, but then you already know I’m not great at memorizing quotes.”
He squeezes my hand. “Funny.”
Sabine walks in the door. “Are you okay?” There’s an edge to her voice. “Mama went to bed and never woke up.”
Ah . . . I imagine after the flurry downstairs she’s had time to worry. I spread my arms wide. “Right as rain. You can sleep with me if you want.” She did for the first two weeks I was here.
She rubs her ring, her eyes darting to Ronan, who’s plopped down in a puffy chaise chair next to my side of the bed. Sparky walks on the back of the chair, then jumps down from Ronan’s shoulder and curls in his lap. Ronan gives him a dark look but doesn’t move him. “Weird-ass cat.”
“Is Coach going to stay?” Sabine asks.
I look at him.
He pets Sparky. “I’ll leave if it bothers you, Sabine.”
“It doesn’t,” she says. “I like you all right. Just don’t snore, ’kay?”
A smile flits over his face as he leans his head back on the cushion. “Got it.”
My limbs grow heavy as I relax into the cool cotton sheets. “Crawl in behind me,” I tell my sister.
“Can we sing?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
“Dolly?”
“Who else?” I reply.
“‘Islands in the Stream’ or ‘Here You Come Again’？”
“You decide,” I say.
Wearing her shorts and a baggy shirt, she crawls in behind me, wrapping her arms around my middle. I clutch her hand, threading our fingers together as her voice croons “Here You Come Again.” I sing the chorus with her.
“I’m never leaving you,” I tell her, my voice groggy. She snuggles closer.
My eyes meet Ronan’s across the shadowy room. He hasn’t taken them off me.
Go home, I mouth.
He shakes his head. No.
I sigh, and before I can think of what else to say, exhaustion and sleep tug me under.
Later, I don’t know when, I feel hands on my head, the brush of his lips against my forehead, and then I’m back in dreamland, in a place where Ronan isn’t afraid to love . . .