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Even Ethan looks disappointed in me.
That makes my stomach twist the most. Maybe because we’re almost the same age, yet I can hear myself: whiney and juvenile.
“I’m just . . . surprised.”
“You can take your time adjusting to the idea,” Tom says. “But I feel strongly about moving you to one of our other rooms.”
My voice falters. My heart weighs so heavy, it feels like it’s in my feet. “I—I like my room. I don’t want to move.”
Throat pinched, eyes stinging, I run upstairs and throw myself on my bed.
Ethan sneaks into my room later.
The curtains are wide open and moonlight shimmers through the windows, over the bed, the rug, the picture of my dad on the wall. I’m still sniffing when the mattress sags next to me.
“I don’t like it, Ethan,” I say. “And I really don’t want to change rooms.”
“I don’t want you to change rooms, either.” Ethan’s frown crushes his brow into one long line from my angle. “But even if you have to, it won’t be too bad.”
I scoff.
“All the rooms downstairs are nice. Some are bigger. Some have their own balcony.”
“I like living up here, close to you. Hearing you move around at ungodly hours of the morning is comforting, somehow.”
Ethan blinks, like this is the last thing he expected to hear. Heat creeps up my neck. “Um, anyway, I don’t want things to change. I’ve just gotten used to them. I know I wear my feelings on my sleeve, but that’s just who I am.”
Ethan drops back on my pillows, sighing at my ceiling. “You really are emotional and dramatic, Finley. I think it’s wonderful. Why should we have to hide our real reactions and thoughts? Why should we have to fit a role?” His voice, already quiet, drops to a whisper. “I wish I was more like you.”
“Like me? But, downstairs . . . you looked upset with me.”
Ethan turns his head; his eyes are dark, face pale against the pillows. “Not you. Myself, that I couldn’t be as honest.”
I hesitate. “You’re being honest right now.”
“With you it’s easier. But I’m not sure I’m being totally honest with you, either.”
My brow lifts toward my hairline.
He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. He doesn’t explain. An unsettled tendril in my belly forbids me from asking.
Ethan blows out a breath. “Can we, like, get to know each other better?”
My body betrays me, inappropriately sparking to life; I pull down a pillow, hugging it. Hiding behind it. “Sure. So, Ethan. What’s your favourite music?”
I expect him to say indie rock or pop. Instead he says, “The harp.”
“The harp?”
“I mean, it’s just a bit different, isn’t it? Such a massive instrument and the sound’s so gentle. What about you?”
“Not the harp.”
“Are you hating on the harp?”
“No, I just wanna harp on it a little more. You and the harp up a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G—”
He rolls his eyes and shoves my shoulder.
“Okay, for real. I like it fine. More now. I like all kinds of music. Crowded House.”
Now Ethan’s smirking, and it’s my turn to shove him. “Cool, cool.”
I peek at him. “Why do you always leave the light on in our living area at night?”
I’ve been burning to ask that for months. It always felt like I might embarrass him. Now, though . . . embarrassment feels like part of opening up.
The bed rumbles with Ethan’s groaning laugh. “I didn’t think it bothered you. You always close your door at night.”
“You don’t?” I know he doesn’t.
Ethan shifts onto his side and pushes the pillow down so we can see each other properly. “Will you tell me why you always listen to audiobooks but rarely read?”
I stiffen. He’s noticed stuff about me, too.
I blow out a slow breath. “It’s just . . . better, listening to stories being read to me. Reading makes me tired.”
“If it makes you tired, maybe you’re reading the wrong books?”
I feel a rush of vulnerability, exposing this failure to Ethan. His opinion means too much. My mouth is dry when I swallow. “I love the same stories as audiobooks. I’m just too lazy to read, I guess.”
Ethan frowns gently.
“You study, though. For your tests. Sometimes for hours.”
I flush at the thought he’s seen me studying. “Hours poring over the same paragraphs.” I laugh at myself, but it’s hollow and painful and I hope he doesn’t laugh too.
He doesn’t. “Hours . . . Is that why you were so crushed about your Achieved?”
The reminder of that day is painful. “I got marked down for spelling and reading comprehension. I think . . . it’s also, like, I read too much into it? Like I’m always expecting a trick question? I have to read the questions three times before I can answer any and then time runs out before I ever finish answering.”
“Time pressure in exams is difficult even when you read fast.” Ethan pauses. “Do the words sometimes trick you? Jump about.”
