Page 2 of Love is an Open Book
“Mistaken identity, falling for a twin, yeah.” She shrugs, like that’s not a wild idea. “But in this case, he wasn’t confused, just too unsure of his feelings to speak up sooner.”
I can’t imagine a world where someone thinks telling theirgirlfriend they prefer her sister is remotely okay. “Does your sister know?”
Impossible to imagine how my brother would react if one of my exes told him she liked him instead of me, since Scott and I are pretty much opposites.
“According to him, no,” she says.
“She won’t go for it.” Then again, what do I know? I just want to make her feel better.
Confirming my doubts, she says, “She might. He’s hot, and smart.”
I disagree with the last one. “He was also your boyfriend.”
“My friend, first.” She crumples the piece of toilet paper she’d used to wipe her tears. “Dating was a new development. And according to what he told me tonight, the worst mistake of his life.”
“You’re not a mistake.” That’s not what she said. But somehow I can tell that’s how she interpreted his words.
Dating someone when you have feelings for their sibling? A mistake, for sure. Buthismistake. One he didn’t own, not if he waited to tell her until now.
Tears gleam in her eyes again, and she tips her head up, blinking toward the ceiling. A drop slides down her cheek and catches in her gold hoop earring. Another quiet sniff, like she’s doing her best to hold it together, has me wrecked.
I’m sure she doesn’t want a hug from a stranger, but I don’t want to just leave her out here when she’s having a rough time. I shrug off my coat and lay it in a folded heap on the carpet. “Want to take a minute?” I ask, wondering if she’ll take me up on the offer or bolt.
She must be really wrung out, because she lowers herself down and tucks her knees to her chest. I follow suit, shifting my backpack to my lap.
“Got any food in there?” Her voice sounds steadier. Resigned, not fragile.
“Wish I did.” I skipped dinner to study. “Just a project for class.” I unzip my backpack and ease out the pottedMonstera deliciosa, its deep green leaves glossy.
“Did you just casually pull a houseplant out of your bag?” She might think I’m weird, but she’s grinning, tears nowhere to be seen, so I’m calling it a win.
“My lab partner didn’t have room for another one at her place, so this little guy is mine now.” Adopting stray plants has been a surprise bonus of studying horticulture.
“Better you than me,” she says. “I can’t even make bouquets last more than a day.”
“Not your fault,” I say. “Those are dead already.”
She frowns. “Morbid.”
“Just saying, have you ever owned a live plant?” She still looks skeptical, so I add, “They’re easier to take care of than a pet, and they’re not judgmental like cats.”
“Cats are not judgmental.”
“Next you’ll tell me they’re cuddly.” The barn cats around the tree farm never let me within twenty yards of them.
“They are, and if you try to convince me plants are cuddly,” she says, “I’m out.”
“Cuddly, no,” I admit. “But they are good listeners.”
“Let me guess, you name your plants, too.”
“That would be weird.” I pull a face. “They pick their own names.”
Shaking her head, she says, “It’s nice to joke around after the day I’ve had.”
“Who says I’m joking?”
She laughs, and I join in, feeling the tension leave my shoulders. I just listened to a voicemail from my dad, asking if I’ll be able to visit on the long weekend, even though I was there last week. He’s an awesome father, but he’s relied on me a lot in the past few years.
