“Jessi, he thinkseveryoneis giving him hints. I swear to you, when he stayed over last weekend, Mom asked if he wanted pancakes and he thought she was hitting on him.”
I laughed. I could see Eric doing that.
“Maybe you should text him and say you have something to tell him, then just rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
Ro sighed. “I guess.”
We talked idly for a while, about what I’d do when summer school was done the next week. We talked about the tournament Ro had won last week and how he was now going to be ranked third for his age division in our state.
“Mom wants to celebrate. She’s planning some kind of fancy dinner,” he said. “If she had her way, she’d probably do high tea or some shit.”
“That could be fun,” I said.
“For who? The count and countess of Notre Dame?”
I laughed. “Well, if they’re coming, tell them to RSVP so Mel knows.”
Ro laid back so his bottom half was on the sleeping bag and his top half was on the grimy floor of the shed, a hygienic risk that I personally was not willing to take, so I stayed sitting, my legs stretched out in front of me.
I was trying to think of how to bring it up, this wedge forming between us that I had been feeling for weeks. But before I could speak, Ro spoke.
“What were you doing in Luke’s room?”
“Helping him pick out an outfit for a special occasion.”
“Is he having vision problems or something?” Ro had been in a state of perpetual annoyance with his brother ever since the night we picked him up from the party. It had been weeks, and he was still making passive-aggressive comments about people not staying out of his shit.
I wouldn’t dignify his question with an answer, but I asked what I’d been gearing up to.
“Are we okay?” I asked, signaling between us.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Ro asked, sitting up again. He sounded genuinely surprised. “Is this about that night I asked you to leave?”
“It’s about ... everything,” I said, struggling to voice my thoughts. “You never text me back lately. We barely see each other.”
“I was busy getting to third in the state!” Ro protested. “And you know I suck at texting.”
“You’re sucking extra hard lately.”
“I just have a lot going on, okay?” He seemed so indignant, I wondered now if the distance—the weirdness—had all been in my head. Worse, I wondered if I was being selfish, making this all about me and our friendship when it had nothing to do with me.
“How are you doing with Mel’s ... stuff?” It was a clumsy way to ask, but it was all I had.
I heard Rowan shrug in the dark. “How should I be doing? I’m not the one doing treatment and whatever.”
“You’re just being so weird. So secretive,” I finally admitted, exasperated.
I expected him to get annoyed and bite back about how it was none of my business, or something to that effect, but he didn’t.
“I don’t know how else to be.”
“You could tell me what you’re thinking,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said, and it was the quickness of his response that stung more than what he said.
“You don’t think you can tell me what you’re thinking?” I repeated, hurt slipping through my words. This—this—was exactly what I’d been trying to articulate. I’d noticed the change the night Mel was diagnosed, but it might have started before that. Clearly, something had changed in the way Rowan saw me, and I couldn’t figure out what it was or why.
“IknowI can’t,” he said. “Because you’ll just run it back to Mom or Luke or someone.”
