“Copy.”
Ivy stands up. She brushes grass off her jeans slowly, buying herself five seconds, and then she starts walking with her fists balled at her sides, almost daring anybody to get in her way. The whole time, I smile at her, because her acceptance matters more than anyone else’s here.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, half to Rowan, half to my own conscience.
“For what?”
“For what’s about to happen to you, specifically.”
She stops in front of us and looks up at her brother — she is small, he is not — and points at him with one finger. Then she shoves him in the chest, two-handed, more for the principle than the impact, and his hand slips from mine as he rocks back.
“You are disgusting,” she informs him. “You are a disgusting human, and I’m going to remember this day when you’re old and fragile and you need help and I say no.”
“Ivy—” Rowan says.
“You are dating myfriend.” She sighs. “My delicate babyfreshmanfriend, whom I have personally protected from the men of this campus?—”
“Ivy—” he tries again.
“—and this is a violation of the Geneva Convention, so first thing Monday, I’m calling The Hague.”
“Which Hague?” he says.
“There’s only one Hague,” she says. “That’s the whole point of The Hague, you hockey dunce.”
“Cool.”
She wheels on me. Her face is bright and her eyes are bright and her mouth is going, but there’s a warmth underneath. “Andyou,” she says.
“And me,” I say.
“You haveterribletaste in boys.” She scoffs, and then I watch it land behind her eyes — the hockey game, the toga party, and the boy I wouldn’t name. “Oh myGod.”
Oh no.
Both hands fly to her face. “‘There’s a boy. It’s not happening.’ That washimthe whole time, and I offered to help the magic happen, with my ownbrother.”
I’m laughing, my eyes watering. Ivy is laughing, still trying to feign outrage. Rowan is laughing, in the embarrassed, put-uponway he laughs when he’s the bit. The sun is in all our faces and it just feels like home.
And then Ivy stops and looks at me. “How long?”
I take a breath. “It’s new, Ives. Itjusthappened.”
She searches my face. “Gross, I hope you washed your hands.”
Then she launches herself at me.
Both arms around me, body pressed into me — the whole assault — and she’s stronger than she looks for someone five foot three. We go staggering sideways into Rowan, who catches both of us with a grunt and the air of a man realizing this is now his life.
“I’m furious with both of you, but I’m also thrilled,” Ivy says into my shoulder.
“Noted,” Rowan and I both say.
“But I get veto rights,” Ivy says.
“Over what?” I say, one eyebrow raised.
“Dates. Locations. Anniversaries. Pet names.” She pulls away and puts her hands on her hips. “But if I hear him call you babe, I’m starting a fire, and I’m alsonotthird-wheeling.”
