Page 32 of My Best Friend's Sister

“I can’t believe you would laugh at me when I’m baring my soul here.”

His teasing made my heart feel light. “I’m sorry,” I said, struggling to suppress my smile. “Please, continue.”

He popped the last bite of my burger in his mouth and studied me like he was trying to decide if I was worthy of his secrets. Then he took a sip of his vanilla milkshake, which was nearly all melted because he nursed it like an amateur, before clearing his throat dramatically.

I laughed again, and it took me a moment to regain my composure.

“I’m not sure you’re ready for me to reveal the truth about my sock fetish,” he said, continuing to blow the whole thing out of proportion.

“I’m ready! Please. The suspense is killing me.” I folded my elbows on the table and leaned forward to make my earnestness apparent. “Start with why they’re medicine.”

“Because they keep me from taking myself too seriously.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“To put it another way, I work with the most self-important divas you’ve never met, and if I wore serious socks, I fear there would be nothing to stop me from becoming one myself.”

My bottom lip protruded as I listened. “So they’re you’re last line of defense?”

“Correct.”

“Okay. And why are they the source of your superpowers?”

“Because they remind me of my mom,” he said, his face softening unexpectedly. “And she really knew how to live.”

My heart sank in my chest. “Knew?”

“She died when I was twelve,” he said. “Stomach cancer. She told me a week after I started sixth grade and passed away before Christmas.”

“Oh Quinn.” My face crumpled along with my insides, and there was something about the unemotional way he said it that made me ache even more. “I had no idea.”

“It’s not something I talk about,” he said. “I usually stop at telling people my socks are a silent rebellion against the corporate world.”

“Thank you for trusting me with that.”

He shrugged. “She would’ve liked you.”

My throat closed up.

“She liked people who were positive, people who liked to laugh.”

“So funny socks were your thing?”

He shook his head and leaned back, giving up on the rest of the chili fries. “No, they were her thing. She wore them until the very end. Even the day she died, she was wearing Snoopy Thanksgiving socks. Thought it was a hoot that Woodstock was dressed like a pilgrim.”

I felt a pang of guilt for all the times I assumed Quinn was just some asshole who’d had everything come easy…and for all the times I’d wished my dad would drop dead.

“I know it’s ridiculous for a guy my age to wear cartoon socks, but it made me feel closer to her after she died, and now I can’t imagine not doing it.”

“That must’ve been a difficult time for you and your dad.”

“I assume so.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“He doesn’t really see the value in talking about emotional stuff. Doesn’t really think it’s befitting of a man.”

“What about after it happened, though? When you were just a kid?”

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