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“Yes.”
“Hmm. I figured you might.”
“It’ll crush my parents. My mother, in particular. How could it not?”
She gives a slow nod. “As long as they don’t know, they don’t hurt. And as long as they don’t know, it’s not real.”
I shift on the chair, feeling too hot. Too seen. “Yeah.”
“Again, it makes sense, in a way,” she says. “But I think they might appreciate you letting them in, and who knows? They might be helpful.”
“Yes.” The idea of being helped stings, though. So does the idea of becoming reliant on others. It’s what I can’t bear to let happen to myself.
Exercising that sneaky sixth sense of hers, she turns back to the salad. Hums a little melody in perfect pitch and sways her hips in tune. I lean back against the wall and watch her, drinking my wine.
Pushing away the words my brother had said. The accusations.It’s not enough that you ignore your family. You’re trying to sabotage us now, too?
None of that exists here.
Not to mention Summer is infinitely more interesting than me and my miserable future.
“How did it feel the other night?” I ask. “Seeing him?”
Her humming stops, but not her swaying, as if she’s still singing in her head. “It felt great,” she says. “Honestly. I didn’t expect it to, but it did.”
I cross my legs at the ankles and she jumps over them to reach the sink. “When I think of him and me, and of who I was when I was with him, it feels so long ago.”
“Hmm.” It’s hard to see her shining goodness, her smiles and laughter and jokes, and imagine her with someone who told her she couldn’t sing. It makes my blood boil. “Why were you together with him?”
“You’re going to laugh,” she says, but doesn’t sound the least bit concerned that I might. “But I think I was more in love with the idea of us being in love, than actually with him. I was so in love with the idea of being in a relationship… that I didn’t care about the red flags. Figured I could change him. Or he’d change because of me.” She shakes her head, reaching up on her tiptoes to reach a bowl. “It was stupid.”
I’m silent, absorbing that. Reminded of her love of love. Of true love.
“You know what, I really like that about you,” she says. This time there’s a clear smile in her voice.
“Like what? I haven’t said anything.”
“Yes, exactly.” The look she throws me over her shoulder is warm. “You didn’t rush in to tell me it wasn’t stupid. Because I know you think it was. And that’s okay.”
I clear my throat. “I wouldn’t have called it stupid. Hopeful, maybe. Even beautiful in a way. But no, I don’t think believing love will change someone’s shitty behavior is a solid strategy.”
“I don’t either. Not anymore. So I suppose I should say thank you to him, really.”
“Maybe that’s taking it a step too far. He’s still an asshole.”
She laughs, looking down at the chopping board. I can see the curve of her lips from where I’m sitting.
“You still believe in true love,” I said. “He didn’t… ruin that?”
“For a while, maybe,” she says. She looks across the room to Ace, who’s lying down and watching her move in the kitchen with attentive self-interest. “But I see it too much to ever doubt its existence.”
“Your parents.”
“My parents,” she agrees. “But also in my friends, in stories I read, in the world. In every call I receive from one of Opate’s clients gushing about the match we set up. It’s everywhere, if you look hard enough.”
“I wish I could see the world the way you do.”
She puts down the knife and turns, eyes meeting mine. “You mean that?”
