“She’s barely been single a week.”
“Fine. Wait. Watch her date one person after the other, always passing you up.”
She waggles a finger in my direction. “You’re projecting.”
As I open my mouth to protest, the server comes by to fill our mugs and take our order, calling us “honey” and “sweetie.” Only once do her eyes catch on the absurd clothing we wear. When she shuffles to the kitchen, Ava rests her elbows on the table.
“So when did you and Daisy start sleeping together?”
Mid-sip, I choke on my drink. “Ava.”
“You’re obsessed with her. Always were.”
“I’m…you’re really nosy, you know that?”
“Are you two gonna get married?”
“No, I—we…” I lean back in my seat with an exhale. “Whatever’s going on, marriage is definitely not something we’ve discussed.”
“Ohmygod, wait.” Her eyes sparkle with glee. “I was joking. Youhaveslept together?”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
I don’t want to share these details with my baby sister. She may almost be an adult, but she also has her own relationship with Daisy.
“Tell meeverything.” Ava scoots to the edge of her seat, bobbing up and down with excitement. “Are you two dating? Are you sharing a bedroom? Did you propose yet?”
“Ava.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“To which question?”
“All of them.”
She sinks back into the seat with a glower. She adores Daisy, so the prospect of her brother and the most incredible girl in town getting together has her mind moving straight to wedding bells and babies.
“Well, why not?” she asks, that teenager attitude in full force.
“There’s a lot about my relationship with Daisy that you wouldn’t understand.”
“Did you ever tell Daisy how you felt?”
“Things between me and her aren’t so simple.”
“You like her; she likes you.”
Warmth fills my veins at the sound of that.
“If it’s so easy for me to ask you-know-who out,” Ava says, looking around the diner, “then you should take your own advice.”
“That’s not how it works in adult relationships, Ava.”
“Stop it.” She points her fork at me, and the server shows up with our greasy eggs and pancakes. “Don’t talk to me like you’re Mom or Dad.”
“Sorry.” I pick at the yolk, smearing gooey yellow across the plate. There’s something about talking to a teenager with the purest outlook on life that simplifies things. “You’re right. I care about Daisy. A lot.”
