“Well, I guess that means the Toronto Tea got something right,” she says. “Sounds like he means Pippa Murphy, right? Unless you have any intel about the mystery woman, which you can leave in the comments below.”
I scroll down, giving the comments a brief skim. The top one reads, “I checked Pippa’s IG, and she follows half theVampire Diariescast. LOOKS LEGIT.”
Scrolling back up, I play the video again. I rewind it a few times for good measure, replaying the part where Ryan says he’s scared of losing “the only woman he ever loved” about a dozen times. Ryan might not have said my name, but he basically announced our relationship to the world. More than that—he said he loves me.
And I finally admit the truth I’ve been denying for weeks.
Jacob felt like a chance at the kind of simple, safe love I’m supposed to want.
Ryan feels like standing on the edge of a rooftop in the thunderstorm.
And I’m finally admitting the truth: I’d rather be terrified with him than comfortable with anyone else.
It’s time to make a declaration of my own.
Yanking open my laptop, I open a new document and let my fingers fly.
Math-minded readers might noticethat it’s the 12th day of Christmas, and I haven’t been on twelve dates. I’m sorry for violating the premise of this column. I could blame the deadly stomach flu that wiped me out right after New Year’s, but the truth is, there was something much bigger standing between me and date number twelve.
Love. How cliché, right? Right when I decided to spread my wings and date all-new guys, I found love with a man I’ve known for almost half my life. It would be the plot of a Hallmark movie, if the way we met was a little more family-friendly.
Because make no mistake, I had a crush on this guy when I met him. I was fourteen when I was informed that this adorable, handsome, shockingly cool guy would be living down the hall from me. It was hel—–all my stupid teenage insecurities, my pimple patches and hormonal sobfests, my terrible haircuts and my goth phase, all witnessed by this stranger right out of a teen soap opera. He was even my first kiss—which is a story for another column, but know that he was blindfolded.
But teen crushes die eventually, and I assumed that I had moved on. No way would I ever have real feelings for my stepbrother, right?
So falling in love with him felt like it came out of the blue. Yet when I look back, it was easy to miss. Love was so small. It was remembering how much I hate champagne and how muchI love pink Gatorade. It was making sure I got home okay, that my cat was fed, and that I was warm enough. It was so many small things that I missed them, until they added up to something bigger.
It’s probably cocky to say “to know me is to love me.” But the man who’s always known me best loves me better than I could ever dream. And he wouldn’t mind if I got a little full of myself—in fact, he’d probably say that he deserves the best, which means me.
So this Christmas, my gift to you, readers, is the truth.
I’m in love with Ryan Archer.
You heard it here first. Yes, he’s my stepbrother. Yes, he’s dated plenty of women who aren’t me. And yes, the sex is fucking spectacular.
I’ll meet you in the forums, to discuss your most taboo relationships and see if you’ve got any that are more outrageous than mine. No judgment on my end. I know firsthand that what seems weird on the outside can feel not just normal, butright.
I review it a few times, just to make sure I stand behind the draft. There’s not one word I want to change, so I email it off to Ingrid with a note not to publish until tomorrow.
After I close my computer, I check my reflection in the mirror, making sure my lipstick is perfect and my hair isn’t too crazy.
“Watch after the place,” I instruct Waffle. “I might be back late.”
Grabbing my coat and purse, I leave my apartment and head home.
40
RYAN
The bottle of whiskey will be staying closed.
Lying back on the couch, I hold the bottle up so it catches the fading sunset through the windows. It catches them in a delicious rosy gold.
“I won’t drink you,” I tell the bottle. “No matter how much we both want me to.”
Those days have been a haze of darkness and wallowing. The last time Pippa dumped me, I got so wasted that I almost tanked my poker career. That can’t happen again. Coming in fifty-eighth place in one tournament is a fluke. Doing it twice is a bad fucking pattern.
So no matter how much it hurt to come back and find that Pippa left without saying goodbye, I refuse to drown my sorrows. I’ve been trying to distract myself by watching season two ofThe Vampire Diaries.Since Pippa’s never going to watch it with me again, I might as well find out how it ends.
