“Differenthow?” I challenge. “She's literally bounced on someone's bed to wake them up since she was six.”
Alfie taps his fingers against his knee, thinking. “Maybe it's not about energy levels. Maybe it's about comfort. Tara's easier to read. You're...”
“I'm what?” I glance at him.
“Complicated,” he finishes. “At least with Delilah.”
I grip the steering wheel again. “I'm not complicated. I'm an open book.”
Alfie's silence is his version of calling bullshit.
“What?” I demand.
“You're not an open book, Troy. Not with her.” His voiceis gentle but firm. “You're basically performing half the time, deflecting the other half.”
“That's not true,” I argue, but even as I say it, I know he's right. With Delilah, I'm always caught between wanting her to see the real me and being terrified of what she'll think if she does.
“Maybe she just needs space,” Alfie says after a moment. “Not everyone processes things at the same speed.”
I exhale slowly, trying to let the tension flow out with my breath. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The car falls silent except for the low hum of the radio and the occasional ping from Alfie's phone.
“So,” I say, desperate to change the subject, “you and my sister. Still disgustingly perfect?”
Alfie's mouth quirks up at one corner. “We're good.”
“Just good?” I raise an eyebrow. “That's all I get?”
“What do you want me to say?” Alfie asks, the closest thing to flustered I've ever seen from him. “That she's amazing? That I think about her all the time? That I'm planning to—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
I nearly swerve the car. “Planning to what?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “Forget it.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “Were you about to say what I think you were about to say?”
“I don't know what you're thinking,” he deadpans, suddenly very interested in adjusting his seatbelt.
“Holy shit!” I breathe. “You want to propose.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” I'm grinning now, my worries about Delilah temporarily overshadowed. “Alfie and Tara sitting in a tree, M-A-R-R?—”
“Shut up,” he says, but there's no heat in it. “I'm not—it's not—we haven't even graduated yet.”
“But you've thought about it,” I press, enjoying his discomfort way too much.
Alfie is quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost miss it: “Yeah. I have.”
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I expected more opposition, more of our usual back and forth.
“Wow,” I say finally. “You really love her.”
“Yeah.” No hesitation. No doubt. Just simple certainty.
I wonder what that feels like—to be so sure about someone. To know exactly what you want and not be afraid to admit it.You do.
