“Of course, why wouldn’t…”
“You’re sad,” she points out. “You’re good at hiding it, but you looked at pictures of her on your phone and you made Lacey take me to the game.”
“She asked to,” I lie quickly.
“No, she didn’t.” Izzie looks so much older than eight, and wiser, like she understands way more than she lets on. Fuck. Owen was right.
“Maybe don’t bother her too much, but you can always talk to her. Unless she asks you not to.”
“Can you still talk to her?”
“I think she needs a little time right now.”
“But you’ll get back together?”
“Iz, we’re just friends,” I remind her, but it’s a bit like a knife to the heart. Because for a few hours, we were everything.
“I’m eight, not an idiot.” She eyes me with all the intensity she can muster.
“I don’t think so. But I’m hoping we’ll be friends.” Am I? Because hanging out with Savannah as actually just friends will be hell. But then the alternative is not seeing her at all, and that feels impossible.
“I was hoping we’d be sisters,” she reminds me with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Iz.”
“Are you sure you can’t buy her flowers or something?”
I laugh at her eagerness, but it doesn’t make it past my chest.
“We’re not a good fit,” I tell her. “At least not now.”
“But soon?” Her eyes light up.
“I’ll stay over tonight,” I say, mostly to change the subject, and she nods, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
“Can we watch her brother’s game? Monday night football,” she adds when I look confused.
“Who told you?” I ask, way more excited than I should be, because if Sav told Iz her secret, on some level, that means she did trust me, because Iz and I don’t keep secrets.
“They have the same last name,” she tells me, as if it was that obvious.
“It’s a common last name.”
“She also said she knew football and baseball better, and you call her Peaches because they’re all named after places in Georgia. She was literally on the field after Christmas. Didn’t you watch?”
“Yes, but?—”
“Her mom also said yes when I asked if Dallas was the one who learned songs to impress a girl.”
“Look at you, Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’d rather be Enola,” she argues.
“Did you tell Savannah you knew?”
She shakes her head. “When the fire station put that picture of Daddy on the wall, I was really proud, but then everybody came up and gave us hugs, so Mommy went quiet, and I wished we could hide in the back, where people didn’t know who we were, even if I was still really proud of him. I think that’s how Savannah feels.”
Shit. Schooled by my eight-year-old sister.
