Cyrus nods, looking unconcerned. “You said you don’t want anyone in your space.”
I think back, but I still can’t find that particular memory. It’s not something I really talk about—partly because it doesn’t make sense, and it’s not a big deal. It’s just something I’m a little particular about.
“I don’t remember telling either of you that,” I say, suspicious now. I didn’t let people in my room when we lived together, but I don’t think I’ve ever said anything about my home.
He jerks his shoulders into a shrug. “Fine. Maybe you didn’t tell us. Maybe…” He draws the word out, his eyes darting up to mine. “Poppy might have performed her psychic voodoo magic and figured it out on her own. And then she might have told me, and I brought it up to see if she was actually right. I had my doubts.”
I glower but don’t answer. We’re walking a fine line in this conversation, and although we disagree about a lot of things—including whether or not I should date his sister—Cyrus is still my best friend.
When he finally sighs, though, his shoulders slumping, I know we’re moving in the right direction.
“Why India?” he says, taking his glasses off. He scrubs one hand down his face. “I know you’re going to do whatever you want anyway. But why her?”
It’s a good question, one I’ve been asking myself too.
“Because now that I’ve met her, I’ve lost interest in anyone else,” I say truthfully.
“And what will happen when you lose interest in her, too?”
“Did you or did you notspecificallytell me that if I came to you and said I genuinely liked your sister, you’d be fine with it?” I say.
“No,” he says sharply, holding one finger up. “I told you that if you fell in love with her and wanted to marry her, I’d deal with it. This is different, and you know it. You have no attention span when it comes to women.” He pauses, leveling a stare at me. “So is this going to be like every other relationship you get into?”
My heart picks up, beating faster in my chest. “No,” I say slowly, keeping my voice steady. “It’s going to be very, very different.” And, the truth I don’t tell him, the one dancing on my tongue: I thinkI’mbecoming different, too.
I can’t explain it, because I barely understand. I’ve always let the women in my life pass by me like I’m a boulder in a stream. They come and go, but I stay where I am.
And I don’t think Imeantto change this time. I only think I looked at India as she passed. Smiled when I saw her. Followed her with my eyes until she was leaving my line of sight. And now…
Now she’s almost gone, and I can choose to stay where I am, or I can go with her.
I’d like to go with her.
All I know is that with India, I could never settle for what I’ve had in the past. With India, I think I’dliketo go through the ups and downs with her. Rough waters and still waters and rain and sun.
Something powerful stirs in my chest, emotional and revelatory.
I’m doing this. I’m jumping out of this nest and praying for wings.
“It will be different,” I say as I swallow that warmth, that desire to call her immediately and ask her to please be patient with me as I learn how to grow and change and love.
Because right now, I need to deal with Cyrus. I don’t technically need his permission. I might not get it at all. But I need to try.
His eyes are narrowed on me, and he’s put his glasses back on. His fingers are drumming on the arm of his chair again, but other than that he’s still. So I wait. I wait for probably twenty more seconds until finally he speaks.
“It better be different,” he says gruffly. He pauses. “If you even so much as?—”
“Yep,” I say, elation and anticipation surging through me. I get to my feet.
“Because you know I’ll?—”
“Yep,” I say again, turning to leave. I hesitate, though, freezing as I’m about to pass out of the room. Then, not looking at him, I say, “She’s special to me too.”
And though his response is quiet, almost inaudible, I manage to catch it: “Good.”
I hurry out of the house and to my car, my mind reeling with ideas and half-formed plans andhopes—so many hopes. I breathe them in, pull them into my lungs like oxygen and let them sustain me for the first time in my life.
“Hey, Herb,” I say into the phone as I get into the driver’s seat. My boss is surprised to hear from me, I can tell—I don’t usually call him. But I press forward anyway. “Quick question. Is it too late for me to submit another article?”