And—
Thankfully, my phone signals an incoming text, and I reluctantly turn away from the window. All three women are now lying on the grass, staring at the sky. Rachel must like stars.
I wonder if I should show her my telescope.
When I pick up my phone, I see the text is from Bexley, full of exclamation marks and emojis. “I MADE IT.”
I don’t bother to respond to her text, but punch her number with angry fingers. “You’re seriously telling me that you are going to be a contestant on a dating show?” I demand, as she answers. “On television?”
“You make it sound like it’s the devil’s business.” And then my sister has the nerve to giggle. “I’m excited and I don’t care what you think.”
“You do care, or I wouldn’t have been the first one you called.”
“You don’t know who I called first.” I wait for a long moment. “Okay, I called you first,” she huffs.
“Have you thought this through?” I can’t come right out and tell Bexley she’s making a mistake, or that I think she’s crazy for exposing herself like that. To do that would be to ensure she signs on the dotted line for whatever craziness she can think of.
“Yes, I’ve thought this through,” she mimics. “You can’t change my mind, brother dear. I’m going to meet Grayson Grant and he’s going to fall in love with me!”
I can tell she’s doing some strange dance of happiness. “Is that what you really want?”
“Yes! Just because you’re the only person alive who doesn’t hope to someday fall in love doesn’t mean that I’m anything like you.”
I look at myself in the mirror of my bedroom. If I got the brains in utero, then Bexley got the beauty with her soft eyes and bright smile. “You have the same colour eyes. That’s about it.”
“Exactly. But I think you should learn a little from me in this regard.”
The thought of being so exposed makes me start to hyperventilate. I’ve always been impressed with Bexley’s strength, but now I understand she must have a limitless supply of courage, too. “There is no way I would allow millions of people to watch me fall in love.”
“Will you at least think about doing it privately?”
“Why is everyone so concerned with my love life these days?” I demand with uncommon frustration. “You can’t plan something like that.”
“No, but you can be open to it at least. How did the date go last night?”
“It didn’t.”
Bexley gives a hiss of frustration. “Did you show up at least?”
“I did, and we had a drink. But we had nothing in common.”
“You don’t have to be carbon copies of each other,” Bexley wails. “That’s boring.”
“There was no chemistry,” I continue, doing my best to ignore her protests.
“How do you know? Did you kiss her?”
“We didn’t progress that far.”
“Did you want to?”
How did I start off trying to convince Bexley not to do, what I think, is one of the stupidest things ever, to her trying to sort out my love life? Again. I reflect on the question, thinking of Brooke’s pretty, symmetrical face. “Not really, no,” I admit.
And then an image of Rachel’s wide, non-symmetrical face pushes past Brooke. I move to the window and look out. Rachel’s blonde friend is still spread eagle on the grass, but Rachel and the dark-haired one are sitting up. And now Mrs. Gretchen has joined them, passing around a bottle of what is undoubtedly her infamous schnapps.
“I knew it!” Bexley crows.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
