They turn to me and cross their arms—a habit we’ve all adopted from Noah for when we mean business. “All right. Fess up. What’s going on? Did you and Will actually sleep together last night?”
My shoulders slump. “Fine. He slept here, but nothing happened. In fact, I don’t think anything will ever happen between us.”
Madison melts dramatically to the floor, pretending to weep as she says, “Annie. You’re killing me. You’re literally murdering me slowly. Please start from the beginning!”
Ugh. Here we go. The truth.
“Okay, okay, okay. Amelia set the whole thing up. Will is my dating coach for a few weeks to help me practice because…” Because I went on a date and it was a disaster and I’m boring. Nope. Still can’t bring myself to tell them that part. They’ll laugh. Or they’ll make a joke about Angel Annie being too saintly for a bank teller. Or even worse, they won’t be surprised at all. “Because I’m ready to start dating seriously, but I’m nervous. He’s just helping me get over the nerves.” I don’t mention how dating lessons have melted into something else entirely, though. And I don’t tell them about the tattoo or how Will has offered to help with any other kind of practice I want because all of that feels too personal. As misguided as it might be, it feels like something special between me and Will, and I don’t want to include anyone else in it.
Emily frowns lightly—her ever-present mom mode trying to carefully dissect every possible obstacle I will have to overcome and then determine whether I’m emotionally strong enough to handle a situation like this.
Maddie leans her hip against the counter. “Please at least tell me it’s like a sexy dating-coach thing? Like y’all are going to practice having sex too?”
“No, it’s not a sexy dating-coach thing.” But when I’m confronted with memories of me and Will making out in my bed last night I realize that statement isn’t totally true. But it stops with kissing. No sex will be happening between me and Will because as I’m realizing in the light of day, that would only complicate whatever mission I’m on to find a husband or myself or…ugh, I don’t know. It just wouldn’t be good, okay?! I have to stop thinking about it.
“So what do you practice?”
I shrug. “Just like regular stuff. Datey stuff, you know? Good topics to bring up on dates. How to flirt. Those sorts of things.”
Madison’s nose wrinkles. “Oh. I guess that makes more sense.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, having a bad feeling that I already know the answer.
She laughs lightly because she thinks I’m in on this joke. “It’s you; and it’s Will Griffin! You guys are polar opposites. He’s all sexy-fun-adventure, and you’re our quiet sweet-little-introvert. I’m just saying it’s probably for the best that you guys aren’t really dating because you’d rather be inside on a Friday night reading a book, and he’d probably be drunk in a club.”
She and Emily laugh, and I try to muster one, too, but all that comes out is a weak attempt at a smile.
“Which isn’t a bad thing at all. It’s just who you are. Our tenderhearted sweetie pie,” Emily adds, laying her head on my shoulder and squeezing affectionally around my waist. “But listen, I fully support your endeavor to get comfortable at dating so you can find someone right for you. Maybe this fall we’ll have a new student enroll with a single dad with a heart of gold and lots of love to give.”
“Oooh,” Madison says, lighting up. “That’s perfect for Annie! Brownie points if he’s a doctor.”
“A pediatric doctor!” Emily adds.
“A pediatric doctor who’s waiting until marriage to have sex again and also has a nonprofit helping stray puppies on the weekend!”
I can’t decide who makes me feel more upset right now. My sisters for once again telling me who I am and what I want—or me for smiling and nodding while they do. I love my sisters so much—which is why it hurts to not feel seen by them at all. I just want to be their friend and not their baby sister all the time. I want to be valued and taken seriously. But how do I do that without opening an entire can of slimy, messy worms? Or potentially hurting them when I tell them they’ve been inadvertently hurting me for years? I don’t want to seem whiny or fragile.
And please explain to me why I can’t for the life of me picture myself standing next to the man they just described, but I can perfectly picture a man with a pair of mischievous blue-gray eyes, a tilted smile, and tattoos hovering over me in my bed as he kisses my mouth again and again for the rest of my life.