Cyrus is nothappy to see me. He’s even less happy to see my fingers threaded through India’s.
We beam at him anyway—the biggest, cheesiest smiles we can manage.
“Did we wake you?” I say, like I don’t know perfectly well that our three minutes of loud knocking and bell-ringing would have been impossible to sleep through.
His glare is answer enough, as are the rumpled pajamas. “It’s ten at night,” he says in a flat voice. “I hate you.”
“I know,” I say brightly. “And I’m full of regret. But our good news simply couldn’t wait.”
And with that, India pops up on her toes and plants an exaggerated kiss on my cheek. It’s wet and slobbery and, miraculously, I do not even care.
Besides—I know now that she doesn’treallykiss like that.
“We’re dating,” India says once she’s planted a few more kisses on my cheek and then turned to Cyrus again. “There will be lots of PDA.”
“Lots,” I say with a nod.
“Any time we argue?—”
“Which may very well be a lot?—”
“We’re going to come to you,” India finishes. “We’re officially appointing you our very own relationship counselor.”
Cyrus is contemplating how to commit murder right now. I’m certain of it. He’ll spare India and get rid of me, ditching my body somewhere no one will ever find it.
India clearly notices, too, because her voice softens as she steps forward. “Cy,” she says, poking his arm in a way that reminds me of what they must have been like as children. She smiles up at him, a hesitant but sincere flicker of light over her face. “Chill. We’re obviously joking.” She hesitates and goes on, “I wanted to tell you because I’m really happy.”
And I watch it happen then, the real-time thawing of Iceberg Cyrus. The longer he looks at her, the more his posture relaxes; his expression grows less tense and irritable, and a slow breath eases out of him.
She’s a magician.
“I have boundaries,” Cyrus says tiredly as he slumps against the doorframe. “I do not want to witness any extreme PDA. Under no circumstances will I be dragged into any disagreements”—he shoots me a severe look—“with the understanding that if you insist, I will be on India’s side unconditionally.”
“What if she’s wrong?” I say. I think it’s a very reasonable question, but he glowers at me. Then he scrubs his hand down his glasses-free face.
“I can’t believe you dragged me out of bed for this,” he mutters.
“It’s because we want you to share in our joy,” I say. I tighten my grip on India’s hand, just because I can.
It’s weird; I’ve held the hands of more women than I care to admit. But it’s never felt so intimate before. It’s never felt so tentative, or exploratory. I’ve never wanted to revel in the sensation of someone else’s palm pressed to mine like this.
“Go back to bed, Cy,” India says, finally taking pity on her brother. “Have sweet dreams.”
There’s a thought—Cyrus having sweet dreams. What would he even dream about?
I don’t get a chance to ask, because he just grunts, nods wordlessly, and then closes the door in our faces.
I glance at India as we turn to head back to the car.
I bet it’s not too late to make her laugh a few more times tonight. A smile curls over my lips, and I squeeze her hand again.
She once told me that the best things are sometimes hidden—that you have to look for them. I almost missed her when she passed by, because I wasn’t looking.
I’m not going to waste another minute.
“All right,” I say as we stroll along. “Pay attention, Sunshine.” She glances over at me, and something giddy rises in my chest—fizzy bubbles of absurd delight. “I have some new pick-up lines I want to test on you. They’re better than the last batch. I promise.”
The snort that escapes her lips is loud and unladylike and entirelyher.“You,” she says, “are a big, fat liar, Felix Caine.”