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I only roll my eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, “for telling me.”
And it’s the last word, the sign-off I need. I launch myself at him, squeezing him tight, returning his thanks with my own.
“And in case it’s not obvious, I’m really proud of you, sis.”
I hide my sniffle in his sweater.
Aiden hugs me tighter. His gray college hoodie, faded and loose from years of wear, is soft against my cheek. This is what I’ve been missing, for far longer than a few years. Maybe my whole life.
“Bee, all these secrets you’ve been keeping. Do you not trust me?”
“No,” I say, rushed, pulling back. “No, it’s not that. It’s…” Worse than that. “You’ve always been this shining example of what to do. Mom and Dad put you on this pedestal, and I was always lil Bee, the one who needs help.” I sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Bee.” His face falls, taking my heart with it. Guess that answers the question of what can make my brother sad. Me.
“I could never be disappointed in you. Are you kidding me?”
The trick, I’ve learned, comes down to Sebastian’s original note. Perfection may or may not exist, but getting there is going to take a lot of messy first steps. How else am I going to get better at living out loud but by attempting it? It won’t always be fun or well received, but when someone dislikes me, at least they’ll dislike therealme. If I make a friend, it’ll be based on a genuine connection. And the people who matter? They like me as I am. And I love them for it.
“Hey. What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask. I want to find new ways for us to spend time together, outside of Sebastian.
“No plans after my run. Why? You want to join us?”
I’d rather read an excerpt of my book to a packed auditorium.
“I ran for ten minutes last year and I haven’t gone since. I’m okay with that.”
He laughs. “Your loss.”
Agree to disagree.
“Actually, I was thinking about something that’s just the two of us.”
“Sick of Sebastian already?” he teases, then softens. “I’d really like that.”
36
BEE
Other people’sstories have always fascinated me, whether they’re real or fictional. I don’t know why I’ve never considered them as separate from each other, but the idea of telling stories—any story—makes me happy. And the look on someone’s face when I’m able to use my words to share their life?Indescribable.
Seriously, I’ve tried. There are no words.
As a kid, I fell in love with talk shows and interviews, fascinated as much by exposés of notable figures as I was by the lives of everyday people. And oh, when the right interviewer came along, someone who knew how to ask the right questions, where to pivot, when to dig deeper. How to get the most interesting story.
That’s what I fell in love with.
The part no one warned me about was that when you spend your life telling other people’s stories, you forget to have your own.
But I’m ready now.
Giulia calls while I’m cleaning the bathroom, becauseof course she does. What could be a more appropriate stage to watch my dreams go down the toilet?
“I’ve read it over, and there’s some potential there,” she says before a long pause.
My heart sinks. I know what comes next.
