Page 75 of The Pocket Pair

She gives me a last few painful smacks before stepping back, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at me with the strangely unexpected look of pride. Almost like she’s a dance mom and I just accomplished some kind of complicated tap routine, earning perfect scores from the judges.

“I knew you could get over yourself and be a decent guy. The kind of guy Val needs.”

I glance away, where some fool in a sports car is taking advantage of my distraction to go faster than he should be through the school zone. “Winnie, it’s not like that. We’re not—she’s not—I’m not—”

I can’t quite get myself to define what Val and I are or aren’t. The reality is—I’m not sure.

Val and I aren’t something.

We’re also not nothing.

“I’m not sure I can be what Val needs,” I say finally, feeling, even as I say the words, like maybe, just maybe, I can. Maybe I could try.

Maybe, like Mari told me just days ago, I could stop fighting ghosts.

I’m not prepared when Winnie shoves me.

I stumble back, and then she’s got me by the shirt collar, holding it tight in her fist as she pushes me back up against my own squad car. I forget sometimes how freakishly strong she is for her size.

Mentally, I start counting up all the infractions she’s incurring, starting with the speeding, moving to the parking the wrong way on the shoulder, and now assaulting an officer. I wonder what would happen if I threw her in jail. The idea of Winnie staring at me through the bars down at the station gives me a little too much glee.

“You,” she says, keeping hold of my shirt with one hand while letting go with the other to stick a finger in my face. “You are going to try. Right? Because you pinky promised. But more than upholding your promise to me, this is about you. Not me. It’s about you and it’s about Val. Not about me or Dad or losing Mom. And don’t discount your fear of loss, Chevy. I have it too.”

The mere mention of Mom sears through me. I’d clutch my chest, but Winnie’s already clutching my shirt, so I simply try to keep from doubling over.

Am I afraid of loss because of Mom?

I’ve never thought about it. Never processed through any of this stuff, honestly. And yeah, I know all about therapy and how mental health is as important as physical health and all that. I’ve just never felt like I was someone who needed help. Maybe I should have considered it more.

But these thoughts make me feel twitchy and breathless and a little nauseated. Who wouldn’t want to avoid that?

“I have the same struggles, but I’m trying,” Winnie says, her voice softer now, sounding a lot less homicidal. “And if I can, I know you can. I believe in you, Chevy. I do.”

That makes one of us. Or, because at least some part of me is starting to believe, it makes one and a half of us.

“Need I remind you of the castration threat?” I ask. “That kind of thing tends to stick with a man.”

“I never said not to date her, you big dummy. Just not to hurt her.”

Here’s the thing, though—I don’t know if I can date Val without hurting her. And therein lies my problem. The thing that kept me up last night long after I almost kissed her. The thing that has me out here just hoping for the distraction of giving someone a speeding ticket.

Winnie lets go of my shirt and straightens my collar before stepping back. “My promise stands. If you hurt Val, I will make you sorry. And James will help.”

Is it weird that I’m more afraid of my sister? Also, I highly doubt that James, who’s still waiting for my blessing to propose to Winnie, would really hurt me. Not if he wants me to say yes.

I stare at my sister for a few seconds, studying her familiar face. Her eyes, the same color as mine, behind her black-framed glasses. She’s actually doing this. She’s moving past the hurt from knowing what our father did and from the loss of our mom. Winnie’s being brave. She’s going all-in, and what’s more—I’d put money on her and James.

Would I bet that same money on me? On Val and me?

“Do we have an understanding?” Winnie asks.

“We do. Now, if we’re done here, daylight’s wasting and guys like that are blowing through school zones on my watch.”

“We’re done,” she says. “For now.”

I climb back in my car and fumble around for my clipboard in the passenger seat while Winnie leans on my open window. “You’re a good guy, Chev. You aren’t him. You’re nothing like him.”

“Everyone in town loves to tell me that I am,” I say, slightly distracted.

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