Mia’s eyes widen slightly. This isn’t in my official biography. It says she died of cancer. Liver cancer is what was kept out.
“My father was absent. Even when he was there, he wasn’t there. He dealt with her by not dealing with her, and Emma and I got caught in the middle. Shit often got ugly.” I don’t dare go into details.
“How much younger was Emma?”
“Three years.” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “She was the good one. Sweet, hopeful. Even when things were bad at home, she never lost that light. She always believed our mama loved us, always believed she’d get better. That we’d get better, as a family.”
“You protected her,” she observes.
“I tried. Not long enough. After a while, I couldn’t always be there.”
The admission hangs between us, more honest than anything I’ve said in years. I don’t know why I’m telling her this, don’t know why her small nod of understanding makes me feel like unraveling the rest.
“Some of that should be off the record too,” Mia says quietly. “Your mother. I won’t use it unless you want me to.”
“Why?”
“Because some things aren’t for public consumption.” She holds my gaze. “Because you trusted me with it, and it feels like I should protect it, like you protected your sister.”
I break eye contact, feeling too much at once, and glance at the windows. The crowd has grown, phones everywhere, faces pressed to glass. Tomorrow, there will be headlines, speculation about Mia, is she really a journalist or is it a cover for a girl I’m dating, etc.
“We should probably wrap up,” Mia says, glancing at the window. “Your PR team is going to have a lot of work to sift through.”
I lean back in the booth, watching her gather her things. “This was…nice. Better than nice. Even though it got pretty personal, I haven’t had a real conversation in longer than I can remember. And definitely not with a civilian.”
“Is that what this was?”
“Wasn’t it?” Cause in the end, it sure as hell didn’t feel like an interview.
It felt like a shared confession.
She pauses, recorder in hand. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I think maybe it was.”
I want to ask her to stay, want to stretch this moment out, keep her here in this sticky-floored diner with the crowd pressing against the windows and Danny pretending not to watch from his post by the door. I want things I have no business wanting.
And I’m afraid. Afraid I can’t say no to myself.
Dangerous. This is dangerous. You know how you can get.
I stand abruptly, paying for the drinks with a few clicks of my watch. “I’ll have Danny take you back to your hotel.”
She looks up at me, disappointment crossing her features before she smooths it away. “No flying car tour of the city?”
“Let’s make it a rain check.”
I offer my hand to help her up, and when she takes it, I’m careful to let go at the appropriate moment. Careful not to hold on. Careful not to think about how small her hand feels in mine,how warm and soft her skin is, how warm and soft her skin might be elsewhere, how easy it would be to pull her closer.
Pull her down.
Hold her down.
Stop it.
“Until next time, Mia.”
“Sure. Until next time.” She doesn’t move toward the door. “You know, you’re not what I expected either.”
“What did you expect?”
