“Sorry,” I say quickly, grinning. “Sorry. I really am. It’s just—you’re so far from boring.”
She makes a skeptical little noise. “Cyrus is this brilliant genius?—”
“Cyrus is technically intelligent,” I correct her. “There’s a difference. His interpersonal skills are subpar.”
“He gets along with you.”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Because we lived together, and because I can more or less be friends with anyone.”
“Aurora is a gorgeous, fiery goddess who could probably stop time through sheer force of will alone,” she goes on. “Juliet is the sweetest person in the world, she’s beautiful, and she’s a dancer and an excellent cook and baker and all that. They’re all exceptional, and they’re defined. The business lady, the dancer, the intellectual. And I’m fine, I’m not ugly or dumb or anything, but I’m just very…” She shrugs. “Very average. And not reallyanything, you know?”
For a moment, I don’t speak. Somehow I can sense that she’s not looking for empty platitudes or compliments. In fact, I’m not sure she’s looking for a response at all. But…
“Your sisters are beautiful,” I admit. “Both of them. And they do both stand out in certain ways. But you do too. And I’ll tell you this, Sunshine”—I nudge her playfully with my elbow—“as great as they are, I would be very uncomfortable up here with either of them.”
“Yeah,” she grumbles. “Because Juliet would be looking at you with hearts in her eyes, while Aurora would refuse to come in the first place.” She throws me a glance that’s half-joking, half-serious. “I’m a nice in-between. The only one you could blackmail.”
“Nah,” I say, my lips curling again. “It’s because you’re my favorite, Sunshine. You make me laugh, you’re adorable?—”
“I’m not a child?—”
“Iknow,” I say. “I know you’re not. You’re twenty-six. But you’re still adorable.” I grin at her. “And you won’t fall in love with me. You let me be myself, and you don’t try to change me. So you’re my favorite. Got it?”
I’m surprised at the little smile she gives me in return, because it’s tinged with something I can’t place. “Do you know what love is, Felicia?”
I blink, surprised at the sudden change in topic. “What?”
“Love is when you don’t try to change each other, but you both end up changing anyway, because that’s what you inspire in each other. They accept you for exactly who you are, but that acceptance makes you want to be better, and you change. You become better.” She sighs, her eyes still on me, serious despite the soft smile on her lips. “Changing for someone is not always a bad thing. And who do you want at your bedside when you die, anyway?” she goes on with a little snort. “Yourbros? Yourhomies?” She shakes her head. “You want the people you love. You want your family.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“I’m just worried you’re going to be lonely someday,” she says, the words smaller now, and faintly uncomfortable. She doesn’t look at me, even when I continue to stare at her. She just fiddles with a few pine needles. “All because you’re scared.”
“I—no. Don’t.” My voice is hoarse, but it’s important to me that she know this, so I go on. “Don’t speak like that, like you’re afraid of how I’ll react. Like you’re cowering. Don’t.”
It’s this, finally, that pulls her attention to me. Her gaze finds mine in the falling night. There’s a second of silence, and then she says, “What?”
I inhale deeply, running my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know if I’m—if I’mscaredof love. I don’t know.” I pause and then go on. “But you’re allowed to tell me you think I am. I’m not going to yell at you or bite your head off or anything.” Clearing my throat, I add, “My dad is a good enough guy, but he’s a yeller, you know? He’s a shouter. And my mom is a peacekeeper. And it bugs me. Keeping peace is fine and good, and I guess their dynamic works for them, but don’t...” I shake my head. “Don’t cower. Not from anyone.Definitelynot from me.”
“I—all right,” she says softly, and she nods. “I won’t.” She hesitates. “Was he like—” She breaks off and then goes on, a little awkwardly, “Was he at leastnice,though?”
I know what she’s asking. “Oh, definitely,” I say quickly. “He was never abusive to me or my mom. He loves us. He’s just stern and—and serious, I guess. He takes everything very seriously.”
“Good,” she says, relief coloring her voice. “Good.”
I nod. “Definitely.” I pause as silence falls between us, thick and heavy. “Uh, before I forget. Can I get your official thoughts on the merits of this place as a romantic getaway?”
“Sure,” she says, and this time she doesn’t look surprised when I hold my phone up and ask if I can record. She just nods. “I guess—” Her eyes jump over to mine. “Can I start now?”
I give her a thumbs up, and she nods again.
“Yeah. So.” She waves an awkward hand around our setting. “This place is gorgeous, obviously. I think it’s great for people who just want to go do something fun together. You can have relative privacy too, if you want”—the image of India and I kissing springs into my mind again, and I banish it impatiently while she goes on—“and it’s quiet enough that you can just sit and talk. It would be a great place to watch the stars or watch the sunrise or camp in the bed of a truck. That kind of thing.” She shrugs and looks at me, and I nod.
“That’s great,” I say, stopping the recording and putting my phone away. She’s right; this would be a great place for any of those things. “Thanks for being willing to share.” I look at her. “So how’s your list going? What can I do to help?”
I half-regret asking the second the words leave my mouth. Part of me thinks now is a good time to wrap up the evening and go home. We’ve done what we came to do; we talked about the romance a place like this offers. I even told her something I wouldn’t normally tell people about my parents—not because I’m traumatized but because I just don’t usually dig very deep in my conversations. The fact that I went there with India makes me a little nervous.
Rather than continue to talk, I’d prefer to go home and go to bed. My mind is swimming, churning, and I don’t even know why.