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I can’t breathe, and the room seems to close around me.
“You may act like you are living, but I know better. I haven’t seen you smile in a long time, not until recently. You looked so happy when you saw Agent Hayes and Desmond Black. It almost felt like looking at a completely different person,” he says, his gaze unwavering as he studies my every move, his insightfulness terrifyingly clear.
My throat tightens as I grapple for words. The question finally squeezes out. “How did I look before?”
Milo looks at me with a deep understanding that reveals the answer without him having to say it. “Sad,” he replies, and my stomach knots as his gaze holds mine. “At first, I thought it was because you just missed Mom and Dad, but then I noticed you looking at other couples—you’d get this look on your face. It was happiness for them, but also…”
“Envy.” An ache blossoms in my chest.
He nods slowly and adds, “I can’t believe I forgot that word.”
Before Milo and I can continue our conversation, Tatum appears in the doorway with a pizza box in her hands and an energy that fills the room.
“Hey yo, Harts!” she calls out, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Milo and I look at her in surprise and annoyance as she struts toward us, her presence overwhelming.
“I ordered a pizza.” I slowly stand up, letting my circulation flood back into my limbs while I point to the pizza on the table.
“Eh, I’ll eat all of this on my own.” She tosses her box on the counter before ruffling Milo’s hair. “Hey, little dude.”
“Tatum.” Milo addresses Tate with a formality that tells me he sees Tatum as beneath him. We can talk about that later.
“Hmm. That’s what you’re wearing?” Tatum spins me in a circle while scrutinizing my outfit and humming under her breath.
“What’s wrong with this outfit?” I step away from them, my hands on my hips. “Jeans and a sweater. I feel comfortable.”
“I can see you went with comfort over dressing up.” Tatum frowns at me. “Are the undergarments at least—” She waves her hands, only mildly censoring herself and glancing at Milo.
“I agree.” Milo perks up. “I don’t know if jeans are going to send the right message.” What a little traitor tot.
“I can’t believe what I am hearing right now.” Are both of them agreeing on something? “I look fine.”
“Yes, you lookfineif you are taking me to the museum, and I’m almost positive you wore that exact outfit when we went on a weekend trip to the capital.” Milo doesn’t talk like any eight-year-old I know, and that is definitely on me, but the fact that he is judging my outfit leaves me speechless.
“I agree.” Tatum holds her fist out to Milo to bump.
As they bump fists, there is a knock on the door, and Milo jumps up. “As the man of the house, it is my responsibility to speak with Mr. Black.”
“Not Desmond?” I mutter.
“Not if he is dating you. He needs to earn first name rights.” Milo walks to the living room like a middle-aged father, ready to give his daughter’s first boyfriend an earful.
“I love that kid,” Tatum says as she side hugs me, squeezing me gently. Her warmth is a comforting contrast to the nervous energy coursing through my body. “You did good, Char.”
My throat burns all over again until my hair gets caught in her armpit, and I have to tug it out. The auburn ends of my hair, tinged with fading sunlight, glisten like copper strands as I free them from her embrace and toss them casually over my shoulder. “I need a haircut.”
“Don’t you dare cut your hair,” Tatum admonishes, tugging on my ends. Her fingers brush against the auburn locks, and I feel a strange mixture of irritation and affection for my unruly mane. “Listen.”
Together, we move stealthily, like coconspirators, to hide on either side of the archway leading to the living room. The dim, amber glow of the wall sconces cast long shadows on the wallpaper, creating an ambiance of secrecy.
“Mr. Black.” Milo’s voice carries out to us, clear and unwavering. “I am under the impression that you’d like to take my sister out this evening.”
I press my fist to my mouth, trying to stifle a laugh at how adorable he is. His small frame seems even more innocent against the backdrop of our adult concerns.
“I would.” Desmond’s voice carries over to us, and I peer around the corner to see he’s dropped to one knee to get on Milo’s level. His tall frame is now bent in a display of respect for my little brother’s inquiry.
“I’d like to ask what your intentions are with my sister.”
