Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(46)

“What?” I squawk. “Of course, I do. Like—” Katharine, I’m going to say.

“Like Dad?” Giselle accuses.

That’s so ridiculous, I laugh. “Him? No. I don’t want to be anything like him.”

Giselle stares down at me. “Then why are you planning your whole life around him?”

“I’m not! God. You think you know everything—”

She snorts. “More than you.”

“Just because you’re, like, five seconds older than me. This is for Mum,” I correct. “Obviously. To prove how…how wonderful she is, and how she didn’t need him, and…and that it was worth it.”

Giselle’s brow creases. “What was worth it?”

“Staying with us!”

My sister doesn’t reply; instead, she studies me with narrow-eyed urgency, like she’s only just noticed I have a third eyebrow and it’s blond. Meanwhile, I’m having a minor internal freak-out because I know when I’m winning an argument. I know when I’m making logically sound points. And all this stuff made perfect sense in my head, but when I say it out loud, it sounds more like the conspiracy theories I analyze.

But…but that’s okay because plenty of conspiracy theories are basically true. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to restore balance and order and meaning to a messed-up situation. And there’s nothing wrong with punishing someone who was supposed to love you but couldn’t do it right. Isn’t that basically what law’s about? Crime and punishment?

I ignore the little voice in the back of my head saying, Well, actually…

My sister takes a noisy breath, her lips pressed together, and I realize with a jolt of discomfort that Giselle—whose moods are usually limited, much like a panther’s, to sleepy, hungry, and bitey—seems worried. Serious. Uncertain. My heart twists. Then she destroys my sympathy by being a complete prat. “Contrary to everything you just said, Celine, I know for a fact that you are very smart.”

I glare. Violently. “I will not deign to respond to that.”

“I believe,” she says, “that if you think about this situation, you’ll reach a logical conclusion. I believe in you.”

That would be a very nice speech if she wasn’t technically insulting me. “Would you stop? This isn’t a big deal. It’s just a ball.” I know I’m ignoring a huge chunk of the conversation we just had by saying that, but God. I’m exhausted. Sometimes talking to Giselle is like having an angel on each shoulder while the devil lives between your ears.

“Just a ball?” she repeats. “No, Celine. No, it’s secret. It’s a lie by omission. If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have hidden that bloody leaflet. You’re sneaking around.”

My throat cinches tighter with every calm accusation my sister throws. “That’s not…I’m not…” I can’t finish my sentence.

Giselle sighs. “And even if it was about the ball: aren’t parents invited to this thing? How do you think Mum’s going to feel if she shows up and sees him, and you could’ve told her, but you didn’t?”

I…hadn’t thought that far ahead, possibly because imagining that scenario makes the bottom fall out of my stomach. I was always going to tell Mum eventually. It’s not that big a deal. I just haven’t figured out how to, you know, phrase it, how to explain.

“Yeah,” Giselle says flatly. “I want you to think about this plan of yours.” Her expression sours on the word. “And about what you really want from your life. Because it is your life, Cel. No one else has to live it.” She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, then shakes her head and leaves, closing the door behind her.

I curl up like a bug and roll onto my side, staring up at my Steps to Success board. Giselle doesn’t get it, that’s all. If she got it, she’d…well. She’d get it.

Except there’s this annoying sickly feeling in my stomach that I’m desperate to turn away from. My phone vibrates, and when I glance at the screen, I see Brad’s name. For the first time since we became friends last month, my mood doesn’t lift in response.

Instead, I remember him calling me avoidant, and I remember that he’s right.





BRAD


By December, Donno has kept me and Jordan off the pitch for so long, I’ve started to seriously consider jogging.

“Bruh.” Jordan’s disgust is loud and clear through my headphones. “Jogging? Not to be dramatic, but I’d honestly rather die.”

“What?” I’m lying on my bed (wearing my inside clothes, obviously), studying the smooth, perfect white of my ceiling. Wintery, afternoon sunlight makes the whole room fresh and bright, and Jordan’s cracking me up as always. “Come on, man. It’s basically football, just fewer people and no ball.”

“It’s soulless and painfully boring,” he announces.

“We have to think of our cardiovascular health!”

“That’s future me’s problem. I am too young and sexy for pointless exercise. Give me a trophy or get out of my face.”

Incredible. “I hope you know how ridiculous you sound.”

“Always,” he assures me.

My smile fades. “I’m sorry, by the way, that Donno’s taking this out on you. It’s basically my fault he’s pissed.”