Page 80 of Wish You Would

She hadn’t actually said Gigi’s name. Not tonight, and not in any of our previous texts or phone calls since she found out. It was almost like if she didn’t acknowledge the who of the situation, she could pretend it was someone else.

It was almost like she wanted it to be someone else.

Which sat like bricks in my belly. Because, for me, it could only be Gigi. And I couldn’t understand why anyone, let alone someone who was friends with Gigi, would disagree. Anya knew how great Gigi was. She knew how funny and kind she was. How smart and stubborn. How—

Anya cleared her throat. I shook my head, clearing away the Gigi thoughts before I got in too deep. “It…just,” I started, shrugging, “happened.” I started opening my laptop.

As if that was going to be enough.

Anya slapped her hand down on the computer. “Nuh-uh. Nope.”

“Anya, come on.” I sat back and pulled a lock of hair over my shoulder. “Why does it matter? It happened. It’s going to keep happening. The how of it is moo.”

Her green eyes were like lasers on my face. There were thoughts behind them, thoughts she wasn’t voicing aloud. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear them. Looking down, I grabbed the first book I saw and cracked it open.

“I’m a little…concerned, is all.”

“Don’t be,” I said, flipping to the next page as if I’d read anything on the last.

She sighed and reached for her wine. I could see her swirling the red liquid from the corner of my eye, and I waited in silence for her to continue. After she took a sip and sat the glass back down, she cleared her throat and lobbed the next question at me. “Are you sure this isn’t some sort of…rebellion? A little dig at Mom?”

That got my attention. Closing my book, I met her eyes, angry. “What the heck, Anya?”

She winced and shifted in her seat. Maybe the most uncomfortable I’d ever seen her look. “Look. I’m not questioning your sexuality or anything like that. I’m not even sure that would ruffle Mom’s feathers. I…fuck. Okay. Fine.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, like she was preparing to take a hit. “It worries me that it’s her.”

There it is. I braced myself against the twinge in my chest. Straightening, I reached for my own glass and took a long sip, the bubbles of the rosé burning on the way down. Carefully, I sat the glass back down among the debris of our study date, then I looked at my sister. The sharp lines of her cat-eye were undercut by the concern in her eyes, the angles of her cheekbones softened by the way she chewed on her bottom lip. Then, the twinge became an actual pain. Because this was the face of someone truly worried.

Looking down, I ran my fingernail along the outline of the Supernatural sticker on my laptop. “Why?”

The question came out quiet, nearly silent, but it rang in my head like a cannonball, and it felt like a betrayal to Gigi.

I could feel Anya watching me, I could feel her weighing her answer in her own head. I held my breath as I awaited it.

“You know how the Winchesters never really had stable relationships?”

My head whipped up. This was not the time to talk about our favorite TV show. “What?”

“They never really settled down,” she went on. “Not for long, anyway. Because they knew their lives were not made to sustain anything long-term or normal.”

I frowned, my brain spinning. “Where are you going with this, you lunatic?”

“It’s gonna come around, trust me.” She shifted in her seat, pulling her leg up to rest her elbow on it. “So, the boys mostly flew solo. Because their lives were too fucked up for normal people.”

“Are you saying that Gigi is too screwed up for normal?” Anger, indignant and hot, rose in my chest. “Because that’s a really messed up thing to—”

“No,” she cut in. “Not exactly.” She exhaled and searched the vaulted ceiling for the right words. “Okay. Not fucked up. But…” Her eyes came back to mine. “She’s not gonna stay, Parks.”

My heart lurched. Blindly, I reached for my wine glass and took a sip. Then, I sat it down, fingers still on the stem, and exhaled. “What makes you say that?”

Anya dropped her foot back to the floor and leaned her elbows on the table, chin propped in her palms. I watched as she thought her answer through, could see her choosing her words carefully. It ticked me off. I was not a baby. I didn’t need to be handled with kid gloves.

“Out with it, Anya,” I said, and she winced at the harshness of my tone.

“Okay.” She sighed. “I know people like her. I am people like her. We’re…damaged. We’ve got baggage. We keep moving to avoid dealing with it.”

Of its own volition, my mind replayed the conversation Gigi and I had last weekend. How she cried when she told me about her dad, and the guilt I could see eating her alive. I looked down, fixing my eyes on the Supernatural sticker again. It was blurry.

Dammit.

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