Which means she's filing it, not dropping it. With Rosalie, there's a big difference.
"Fine," she says, and picks up her coffee. "But I'm not canceling on Jade forever. She asked about you."
"Of course she did."
"That wasn't a compliment; it was a warning."
I almost smile. "Noted."
She starts moving her food around her plate, seemingly lost in thought. I perch my chin on my steepled fingers and watch her. It's not often I catch Rosalie struggling for words — she has built an entire career on never being without them — but there's something sitting right on the edge of her tongue that she can't quite decide to say.
So, I wait. I've learned how to wait her out.
When she looks up and finds me staring, she rolls her eyes.
"Well?" I ask.
"Well, what?"
"Whatever it is you're holding back. Say it."
She pauses. Sets her fork down. Picks it up. Sets it down again.
"It's not—" she exhales. "Michael, are you gay?"
My eyes go wide. Of all the places I thought that sentence was going.
She raises both hands before I can speak. "I won't judge you if you are. You know that. But you won't date, and I know you're not actually a womanizer — I've known that for years; you're playing this role up for the press. And you've never once hit on any of my friends, not even when they were clearly interested. You just—" She tilts her head slightly. "You don't seem interested in women. In anyone, really. And I've beentrying to figure out how to ask you for a while, and apparently now is when I lose my filter entirely, so..."
She gestures vaguely.There it is.
I stare at her.
Well. Fuck me.
My sister — Yale Law, fifteen years practicing, the sharpest person I know — has looked at the evidence available to her and reached a completely reasonable conclusion that is also completely wrong.
I pick up my plate and walk it to the trash, raking the rest of my eggs in. I've suddenly lost my appetite. "No, sis. I am not gay."
"You're sure?"
"Reasonably certain, yes."
"Because it's okay if—"
"Rose. I'm not gay."
She studies me for another beat, like she’s not sure if she believes me yet. "Then what is it? Because normal, straight, almost-thirty men who look like you do not voluntarily live like monks."
"I'm not living like a monk. I go out constantly."
"You go out and come home alone constantly. There's a difference." She leans forward slightly. "You're content with living a life so...devoid of companionship?"
"I said I was content."
"You said it like a person reading from a card." She tilts her head. "Michael. Something keeps you from letting anyone in, and it has for as long as I can remember and I have given you space on it because you need space. But I love you, and I'm asking."
The kitchen is quiet for a moment.
