“Tara.” It comes out like a warning, but she just steps closer.
“Come on,”—she tilts her head, looking up at me through her lashes—“what’s the worst that could be in there?Love letters? Diary entries? Embarrassing photos from your emo phase?”
She’s too close. Dangerously close. I can smell her shampoo—something floral that makes my head spin. Can count the light freckles scattered across her nose, the ones that I don’t think were there in the winter.
“Don’t you think we should be, I don’t know, actually planning for my family visit in two days?”
“We are planning,” she says, but her eyes are still on the drawer. “I’m gathering intelligence. Learning your habits. What you like, what you hide...”
“What I hide is none of your business.”
She finally looks at me properly, and something shifts in her expression. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you? About keeping parts of yourself locked away?”
The question hits too close to home. Because yes, that’s exactly what I do. What I have to do.
“Fine.” She sighs dramatically, but there’s understanding in her eyes. “Keep your secrets, Spencer. For now. I’m going to the bathroom.”
I wait until her footsteps fade before opening the drawer, pulling out my sketchbook. The latest drawing stares back at me—Tara in the rain the night she showed up on our doorstep, soaked and scared and still somehow radiant. I’ve drawn her too many times. The way her eyescrinkle when she laughs, how she gestures when she talks, the curve of her neck when she’s lost in thought. Each drawing feels like a confession I can’t take back.
Yeah, some things definitely need to stay hidden.
I shove it back into the drawer just before she comes in.
“We should probably figure some stuff out. You know, for authenticity.” she says.
I make the mistake of watching her settle back on my bed, legs crossed, skirt riding up her thighs. She pats the space next to her like this is totally normal. Like we sit on my bed together all the time.
“Twenty questions?” she suggests. “Things couples would know about each other?”
I sit at my desk chair instead of next to her. Safer this way. “Fine.”
“Favorite color?”
“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”
She shrugs. “Gotta start somewhere. Mine’s pink.”
“Blue.” I run a hand through my hair. “Dark blue.”
“Like the ocean at night?” Her eyes light up. “Or like space? Oh! Is it because of your astronomy thing?”
“Next question.”
“How did we start dating?” she asks. “We need our story straight.”
“We can stick close to the truth. We met through Troy.”
“Boring!” She flops back on my bed. “What if you saw me in the library and were so captivated by my intense study face that you justhadto know me?”
“Or we tell them Troy set us up because he was tired of me being antisocial.”
“And then you walked over and said, “Hey beautiful, I just have to know your name? Even if it’s the last words I ever hear.”
I blink.
“Or, we say I am friends with your brother, and he set us up.”
“Uh fine! I guess it works. Simple, believable.” She sits up, eyes bright. “Oh! And we resisted at first because, you know, brother’s best friend and all that. Butthenyou fell helplessly in love with my charm and wit.” She flutters her lashes and grins at me.
