But it no longer hides everything.
Maybe it never did.
She takes a sip of her tea. “Why do you do that?”
“Say fair?”
“No.” She looks at me. “Store up points.”
I lean back against the wall, jacket warm around my shoulders, mug hot between my palms.
“That is a bigger question than it sounds like.”
“You don’t have to answer,” she says after a moment.
That almost makes me laugh.
“I know,” I say.
She nods, as if that settles it.
“I think I got used to feeling like I had to be ready,” I say.
“For what?”
“To prove I belonged in the room. Or that I should be in a better one. Or that I wasn’t just making noise.”
She is quiet.
“My brother has always been impressive,” I say. “Not in an awful way. That would have been easier. He is kind. Supportive. Sensible in a way that makes you want to play a trick on him just to see him lose it.”
Pippa’s mouth curves. “Must be inconvenient.”
“Deeply. If he were a smug bastard, I could resent him cleanly.”
“But he isn’t?”
“No. He’s brilliant and decent, which is frankly selfish of him.”
Her smile lingers for half a second longer than usual.
I look down at the mug because saying this while looking at her feels increasingly like setting fire to my own dignity.
“He got the good marks, the good universities, the serious career. He walks into rooms where everyone already understands why he should be there.”
“And you don’t?”
“I can. Sometimes.” I turn the mug between my hands. “But I’m good in a different way. I’m good with words. Good at energy. Good at walking into a room and making people listen before they’ve decided whether they want to.”
“Useful skills.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“But they can look like noise if I’m not careful.” I pause. “And sometimes even when I am.”
Pippa studies me.
