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“It looks new.”
“It is new.”
She clears her throat. “A bullseye, huh? Right over your heart, eh? Interesting.” Not interesting—she knowsexactlywhyit’s a bullseye. “Maybe you shouldn’t take Annie swimming anytime soon.”
I swallow. I have no words. But I can still move. I scurry over to my dresser, open a drawer–why didn’t I go there first? And yank out a white T-shirt. Fumbling, I attempt to force my head through an arm hole before finding my way into the thing correctly.
Coco crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes blinking, before she puffs out a breath and says, “Annie said she’ll sort of meet you at the restaurant. Whatever that means.” She grasps her left hip and tilts her head. “You aren’t wearing sweats, are you?”
“No. Um. I—” I point at my desk. “I hadn’t gone through my closet yet.”
“Well, what were you doing? Maybe you should have me approve all of your future decisions.” Her eyes fall to my chest once more before returning to my face. She studies me. “Owen Gray Bailey, you’re turning the loveliest shade of guilt I’ve ever seen. Whatwereyou doing?”
A bubble of giggles sounds from the girls just three feet away from us. I glance at them before darting my gaze to my guilty laptop opened wide for everyone to see.
Coco follows my line of sight. “Dear Ask Annie? You’re writing a letter?”
I clear my throat. “Um. Yeah. Meredith suggested it.”
“What kind of letter,” she says, taking a seat at my desk.
“Um, a letter to convince Annie that she might love me back,” I whisper—low enough that my snitch of a niece doesn’t hear.
Coco’s head whips in my direction. “Serious?”
I swallow, which I’m pretty sure everyone this side of Coeur d’Alene Lake heard. “Yes.”
“Brilliant. Annie answers everything. And she’s experimenting right now.” She sets her fingers to the keys.
“Whoa—hey, what are you doing?”
“Youneedto do this.” She stands and pats the back of the chair, willing me to sit. “Owen, you’re doing something! I’m so proud of you.” She lifts one brow, then mutters, “This is much better than your not-so-subtle tattoo.”
I sit with her urging. Coco stands right behind me, her face hovering over my shoulder. “What are you going to ask?” she whispers.
“I—I’m not sure.” I stare at the screen and Coco stares just behind me. “Any suggestions?”
“Yes,” she says, nudging me over with her hip so that we now share this armless, swiveling office chair. She shoos my fingers away and begins to type.
Dear Ask Annie—
What are your feelings on dating a friend? Like a best friend? I’ve been in love with my best friend for years, but too afraid to make a move.
Sincerely,
“Whoa. Too afraid? I—no.No.” I shove my fingers back into play and delete the line.
“What have I written that’s false?”
“Afraid?” I say, defense in my tone.
“You are afraid, Owen. You are afraid of being rejected—”
“No. I’m not. I’m afraid of losing her. If she doesn’t feel the same, and I confess—then I’ve lost her.”
My sister covers my wrist with her hand and squeezes. “Still afraid,” she says. “Now sign it.”
I reread what she’s written. None of it is fiction. None of it is fabricated. And doing the same thing, but expecting different results, is, in fact, insanity. I add:But I fear I’d end our friendship with the truth.And then, I sign it.
