I look at Yana and wonder if Tilly told her or Zara about yesterday. I wouldn’t hold it against her, but I don’t know what to think if she did.
Yana isn’t looking at me any differently than she was yesterday, so I doubt it.
When Yana looks at Tilly, I am proved right as Tilly’s looking very interested in the jam she’s bringing to the table.
“Tills, can I have a word?”
Tilly’s eyes meet mine.
I shrug.
“Sure,” she says softly, handing me the jar before following Yana out.
I go to the kitchen and take her place by the stove.
I know Tilly will tell Yana now, because those two can’t keep a secret from each other to save their life.
We all know each other well enough that it is impossible to keep a secret from each other, but Yana and Tilly have a special bond. They are basically sisters, but completely different.
I don’t know why, but my chest feels warm knowing that she kept it a secret.
I have no proof she did, but I have a gut feeling she didn’t say anything about it.
Sure, it’s not that big of a deal, but knowing that something was between Tilly and me only makes my heart warm.
I stare at the pan, wondering if this will change anything between the group and me. Will Yana act differently toward me now? Will Tilly tell her not to — and she still will anyway?
I notice that until… I don’t actually know when, but I always saw Yana and Tilly the same.
Both of them were my best friends, and I loved them equally.
Now, I noticed that Tilly has blue nails when she was flipping the pancakes today, and I could not tell you what color Yana had.
It feels weird.
I’m not trying to notice everything about T, but I’m not complaining.
In fact, it feels as if a spot in my brain has been created to store every piece of information about her, and I don’t know what to think of it.
I don’t know what to think about Tilly.
I don’t know what to think about the group.
I don’t know what to think about my feelings.
I don’t know what to think about–
“Hey, you good?” Zara’s voice breaks through my brain fog.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re burning the pancake,” she says, pointing. “And Italians don’t usually burn food.”
I look down.
Sure enough, the pancake is black and sticking to the pan.
“Oh.”
