“No.” Bea wraps her hand around mine, squeezing tight. “I promise you, we didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“I believe you. Besides, why would you? He’s always been nice to you and Jules, so why would you assume the worst in him when he’s only ever shown you his best? Same with Mom and Dad—he’s like the son they never had. In their eyes, Christopher can do no wrong.”
Bea wrinkles her nose. “I mean, they clearly weren’t thrilled with how he spoke to you on Thanksgiving. Mom made him not only scrub but put away an obscene pile of dishes on Thanksgiving. Then, after you left, he took care of Dad’s nightly haul of food scraps to the compost bin and Puck’s litter.”
And after those couple of measly tasks, I’m sure Mom and Dad have already forgiven and forgotten.
Struggling to read my silence, she says, “I’ve just made things worse, haven’t I?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay.”
“You can tell me if it’s not okay. I know you’re protective of me, KitKat—you always have been, even though you’re my little sister. When Jules was being a social butterfly and people took their shots while my twin was gone, you came in swinging.”
I smile faintly. “I do have pretty strong Big Sis Energy.”
“You do.” Her eyes search mine, before they dance down to where she holds my hand. “But I don’t need your protection anymore.”
My heart twists. Another way things have changed. Another way I’m not needed. I nod. “Okay.”
Staring down at my hand, Bea takes a deep breath, then meets my eyes long enough to say, “Let me be big sister for once and take care of you. Let’s stop talking about Christopher and enjoy Sister Day.”
“Sister Day?”
She gives my hand a firm squeeze, then releases it. “Sister Day.”
I shift on the sofa, nervous. Unless Sister Day consists solely of sitting on our asses, eating these doughnuts, whatever we do is going to cost money I don’t have.
I can use the credit card, I guess. And then I’ll make myself double down on gig hunting tomorrow, send out emails to photographer contacts in the city and put out feelers to see if any of them need help getting caught up with editing their photos.
“Don’t worry,” Bea says, misinterpreting the unease I’m sure I’m broadcasting on my face. “We’ll keep it low-key. How about we hit up a couple of those vintage shops you love, grab some street food, then come home, get into jammies, and watch a foreign film. They always make you cry while you pretend not to cry and put me to sleep; I could use a nap.”
I wallop her with one of the fifty-five ridiculous throw pillows on this sofa. “I do not cry. My eyes may mist up sometimes, but only because of this city’s dry-ass air.”
“Sure, KitKat.” Bea dodges another pillow lobbed her way.
Just as she pops the last of her doughnut in her mouth, Bea’s phone dings and she scoops it up. A smile I’ve only seen in the past few days brightens her face.
“Jamie?” I ask, leaning back on the sofa and biting into a new doughnut.
She nods, smiling as she types back.
“You don’t want to spend the day with him?”
Bea frowns my way and sets down her phone. “One, I was with him the past two days nonstop. Two, he’s working today, then he has plans with a friend this evening.”
“Anybody worth introducing your sister to?”
Not that I’d have the first idea what to do with them, even if they were. It’s not a high-speed highway for me, the road between meeting someone I find compelling and wanting them sexually. Since realizing attraction seems to work differently for me and trying to be open about that with people I thought I might be into, I’ve been met with impatience, dismissal, frustration, and ignorance. I got fed up. I stopped trying, stayed busy with work, exhausted myself, ignoring that quiet ache inside me that wished someone would understand how I worked and want me as I was.
Bea grimaces.
“What?” I poke her gently. “You don’t like this friend of his?”
She shakes her head. “No. I like him.”
“Then what is it?”
She lets out a weird half laugh, half choke. “Can I plead the Fifth?”
“Oh, come on. You’re not betraying Jamie by just talking about someone besides him.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” Groaning, she digs around the doughnut bag, unearths a powdered sugar doughnut hole and pops it in her mouth, then says around her bite, “It’s Christopher.”