Page 20 of Duke, Actually

“Yep. She’s three years younger.”

“And you’re close to her, too?”

“Yeah, but in that weird way siblings are without there being a lot to it objectively. We love each other, but we don’t have much in common. She’s a corporate lawyer for a mutual fund company, and I teach and write about literature. We don’t talk that much, but, you know, we’re sisters.”

“Funny how that happens. You can grow up with someone, spend all your time with them, and then...” He waved a hand in front of his face. “It’s all gone once you become adults.”

It occurred to Dani that in the space of two days, she’d told Max about Vince, her job dissatisfaction, and her family. He had a gift for drawing out information. He’d seemed genuinely interested, but maybe all he was doing was being polite. She, on the other hand, knew nothing about him.

“Do you have siblings?” she asked in an attempt to make the conversation more two-sided. He had sounded, when he’d talked about growing apart from a sibling, as if he’d been speaking more than theoretically.

“A brother.”

Was it her imagination, or did he purse his lips a little as hespoke? “Younger, I presume? Since you’re the future duke and all.”

She’d been trying to lighten the mood, but he just said, “Yes. Younger.” The terse, clipped tone sounded like it was coming from a different person than the carefree baron who had taken her toThe Nutcrackeron a whim. “Are you close?”

“We were until he went to boarding school in England.”

She was about to ask where Max had gone to boarding school when he stepped off the path and said, “Let’s make snow angels.” It had snowed most of the day, though it had tapered off while they’d been at the ballet. He took big strides until he reached a patch of untrammeled snow. He stopped and turned about twenty feet from her, seeming to realize she wasn’t following. “What? Is snow-angel-ing not done in America?”

“It’s done if you’re seven. And if you don’t hate Christmas.”

“Come on.” He beckoned her. “Youjustsaid you wanted to get into the Christmas spirit this year.”

“Why are you always suggesting silly, impulsive things like ballets and snow angels?”

“Why are you always resisting them?”

She almost gasped at the question, which felt like a thin, perfectly honed blade sliding effortlessly between her ribs.

The answer was that indulging in snow angels and impromptu outings to the ballet felt like exposing herself somehow. Putting on display the tender, inner part of her that was capable of taking delight in innocent pursuits, and that, in turn, felt like she was setting herself up to be mocked.

Which was sad. She had never been a frivolous person, but she used to have fun.

In one sense, the sum total of her experience with Max was him asking her to do stuff and her saying no. Do you want to go to dinner? No. Do you want to go toThe Nutcracker? No. Can I send a car for you? I’ll take the subway. Can I walk with you? You don’t have to.

Vince had done this to her. Vince and his operas and his cubist literature.

No. As much as she hated to admit it, that wasn’t entirely fair to Vince. The hard truth was she had done this to herself. She had let Vince turn her into this brittle, careful, suspicious person.

She had turned into a person who didn’t trust her own judgment.

That was why she had her list.

But the list didn’t say anything about outlawing fun. It was one thing to be post-men. But did that have to mean she was on the defensive in all human interactions? Did she have to become a misanthrope? Her parents had moved to Long Island. Leo had moved toEldovia. She’d been thinking just yesterday about how she hadn’t seen much of Sinéad this semester. If she saw the people she trusted rarely-to-never, what did that mean for her life? Not to be too melodramatic, but what did that mean for her soul?

Snow angels it was.

“You’re not dressed for it anyway.” Max started back toward her.

“No, no. Stay there. I’m coming.” He grinned, and she gasped as she stepped into the snow. It wasn’t a gasp that came from the shock of confronting painful truths this time, though; it was a gasp that came from the shock of confronting painfulcoldas her feet sank into the snow. Shewasn’tdressed for this, but shecould hardly turn back now. Snow-angel-ing, to use Max’s silly verb form, had become symbolic.

“That was false bravado a moment ago,” he said when she reached him. “I haven’t done this since I was a child.” He eyed the snow. “I’m not sure I remember how.”

She made a shooing motion to get him to move farther away. “The trick is to have a big enough patch of fresh snow.” She waved her arms like she was doing jumping jacks. He did the same, positioning himself so he was next to her. “And keep your legs spread,” she added, stepping wide and ignoring the stabs of pain in her pantyhose-clad ankles.

He cracked up. “Keep your legs spread. Yes. A particular motto of mine.”

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