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Ren tips his head, and the gesture’s so like Ziggy, I squeeze my eyes shut, then scrub my face with my hands. “Ziggy and I bumped into each other, and…talked…in a way…we haven’t before.”
So far, this is entirely honest. Am I leaving out crucial details? Like the fact that our talking at all was a novelty, since I’d pointedly avoided more than a cool hello since I met her? Or that as I watched her hike up that dress, all I could think was how much I wanted to fall to my knees, spin her around and bury my face in those freckled thighs? Or that when I dragged her into the light, and her eyes locked with mine, there was a moment I nearly wrenched her into my arms and kissed her?
Yes. I am leaving out those details.
Not because I’m trying to get around a truly uncomfortable confession—well, not primarily because of that—but because they’d undermine our pretend-friend ruse, and more importantly, they’re irrelevant; I will never act on those impulses.
I will never have her all the ways I’ve fantasized about having her. I will never taste her, kiss her, until I’m lightheaded from favoring her soft, lush mouth over the intrusive need for air. I’ll starve those unspoken truths inside me until they wilt and die. No need for Ren to know something that will one day be obsolete.
Ren’s quiet, watching me, waiting, kind, patient, steady, as always, as I search for the words to further explain myself. “Since then, we’ve…sort of hit it off.”
The terrible truth is that’s not a lie, either. I’ve only spent an evening and a morning with her—cornered on my rooftop patio, eating beside her on the hood of my car, undeniably bonding with her somehow at yoga, seated across the restaurant table for breakfast—but we have hit it off. I like her, dammit. Worse, I think she likes me, too. At least, the version of me that’s trying to appear to behave myself.
“Only as friends would hit it off,” I add, very deliberate in how I phrase that. It implies we’re friends without explicitly saying we’re friends. I haven’t lied to him.
Ren leans a hip against his kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed over his chest, and smiles. “Seb, that’s great.”
My stomach knots. “I wasn’t sure you’d think that.”
A furrow settles between his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I think that?”
“Because I’m a jackass with a horrible reputation and Ziggy is…the opposite. She’s kind. Good. Angelic.”
Ren snorts a laugh, pushing off the counter before he strolls to his fridge, pulls out a seltzer, and offers me one. I shake my head. “My baby sister”—he cracks open the seltzer—“is the kindest. And certainly good. But angelic is pushing it. She’s capable of some formidable pranks, has terrifyingly accurate tickle-dar, and not only can out-sprint every single one of us but has zero problem gloating about it.”
I feel a smile lift my mouth and drop my chin, staring down at the ground so he won’t see that. “I’ve experienced the tickle-dar. It’s brutal.”
Ren laughs again. “Right?”
Forcing my face into cool blandness, I peer up and hold his gaze. “I want you to know…I respect how much she means to you, how protective you are of her. I won’t forget that.”
Ren’s smile deepens. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I know you won’t, Seb.”
I hate how much that means, to have his trust in this. And I can’t deny how much it means, either. “Thank you.”
“So,” he says, “the pictures of you two at Betty’s Diner, then at breakfast today, and the angry yoga story online are making a lot more sense.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed. “There’s something online already?”
Ren nods. “I’ve got Google alerts set for my family. Popped up about half an hour ago.”
“They named Ziggy?”
He shakes his head. “No. They named you.”
“I’m not…” My voice dies off. “I’m not your family.”
“To me you are,” he says, scrolling through his phone, like he hasn’t just dropped an existential grenade at my feet.
I can’t risk the obliterating impact of that statement, so I don’t touch it. Instead, I pull out my phone and scour the first article I find. “‘Yuval Burns,’” I read, “‘founder of angry yoga, was seen leaving Seb Gauthier’s home, not long after followed by Seb himself and an unknown redhead driving his car, most likely due to his injured foot, which would prohibit safe driving. Seb and his companion were then seen at Café du Monde, laughing and enjoying a hearty breakfast. Is she his minder? Friend? Something more? We’ll report back when we have details.’”
Groaning, I drop my phone on the counter. “‘An unknown redhead.’ She’s going to love that.”
Ren frowns. “Ziggy’s never been comfortable stepping into the spotlight. I doubt she’ll mind having flown under the radar.”
A weird pinch in my chest stops me from saying more. It’s odd and unreasonably satisfying, to know something about his sister that he doesn’t. The Bergmans clearly don’t recognize how much Ziggy wants to be seen. Somewhere along the way, the people who loved her best lost sight of the fact that just because you’ve lived one way for a time doesn’t mean you want to live that way always, that your struggle to evolve isn’t an indicator of a lack of desire to evolve. It just means…it’s hard. And it might be a hell of a lot easier if the people around you saw your possibility.
Fierce, piercing pride floods me. I’m that person for Ziggy. At least, I can be. Not just someone whose tough image can roughen hers up. But someone who shows her he recognizes her possibility.
