I’m on the phone with Marisa in the hotel room. It’s nearly ten, and I’m uncomfortably full of sushi and sashimi and soy sauce. The evening was fun, despite Lewis’s momentary melancholy. He ordered saké, though not enough that Fitz had to carry him home. I was getting out of the shower when Marisa called, having just heard about Matt from Dad.
“I didn’t want to tell him,” I protest. “He trapped me.”
“I’m just glad he didn’t force you to come home,” she replies. “Having the room to myself is kind of the best. Hey, could you not come home very much when you’re in college? Or ever?”
“You butt.” I laugh. “I know you miss me.”
She scoffs loudly over the line. “Miss you? More like I miss your car.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t miss you talking in your sleep. Or your morning breath.” I put the phone on speaker and pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“You’re such a liar.”
I start distractedly packing in preparation for leaving for D.C. in the morning. Picking up the Carnegie Mellon pamphlet I grabbed from the admissions office, I remember Fitz’s enthusiasm in the linguistics lecture. I wonder if he’s mentioned to his brother why we’re here, why I rerouted the trip to Pittsburgh. Lewis admitting his feelings about Prisha today was a rare confidence between the brothers, and I can’t help hoping it begins a pattern of letting each other in. Fitz could use a brother to confide in. Lewis could too, even if he doesn’t show it.
“Hey, Marisa?” I say. I take the phone off speaker and return it to my ear like bringing her voice closer to me can close the geographical gap between us. I don’t want to keep everything from my sister. I don’t want us to fall into Fitz and Lewis’s uneasy relationship of unspoken words and silent resentments.
“What?” She sounds somewhat distracted. I figure she’s painting her nails. Her favorite shade, Indignantly Indigo. I like that I know that.
“I kind of met someone on this trip,” I say. It’s funny—just mentioning Fitz gives me a giddy, weightless feeling. I find I’m smiling into my phone.
Marisa gasps exaggeratedly. “Juniper Ramírez. Is this someone why you and Matt broke up?”
“No,” I insist. “Matt and I wouldn’t have lasted regardless.” I cross the room carrying the clothes I wore today. When I fold and place them in my suitcase, my hand brushes Marisa’s sweater with its impossible-to-ignore coffee stain. “Oh, and I have to come clean about something. I, um, stole your sweater and sort of got coffee on it.” I wince in anticipation of the explosion I know is coming.
“You what?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new one,” I rush to say.
I can hear her fuming over the line, probably plotting how to inconspicuously murder me in my sleep. I remember when I dropped her phone two years ago, cracking the edge, and she retaliated by writing Juniper is a loser on the back of mine in permanent marker. I followed a YouTube tutorial involving dry-erase markers to rub the ink off.
“Wait,” Marisa says suddenly. “Does Dad know?”
“About the sweater?” I ask, not following.
“No, dummy,” Marisa replies exasperatedly. “This guy you met. Does Dad know?”
“No one knows but you,” I say, grateful to move on from the subject of her stained cardigan. “Please don’t tell anyone,” I continue hurriedly. I have no idea how she’ll feel being my confidant. This is uncharted territory for us.
“You mean like how you didn’t tell anyone when I went to Steve’s party?”
I kind of deserve the jab, but I’m not going to concede that to my sister. There’s a knock on the door. “Marisa, please,” I say, getting up.
“Fortunately for you,” she singsongs, “I’m a better sister than you deserve. What’s his name? What’s he like?”
“I’ll tell you everything later,” I promise, walking to the door. “I have to go now.”
“You’re a tease,” she replies. “I expect details tomorrow.” I hear in her voice how obviously happy she is. It’s clear how much she wanted this kind of sisterly relationship—this kind of friendship—which makes me realize how much I wanted the same. I’ve shared a bedroom with Marisa for years. I don’t really have a reason why we’re not closer, why we’re not encyclopedic, citable, peer-reviewed authorities on every detail of each other’s lives. I’m starting to suspect being that to each other might be easier than I expected.
“Say hi to everyone for me,” I tell her.
“Have fun,” she says suggestively. “I’ll be expecting my new sweater for Christmas.”
I roll my eyes. “I know, I know.” I hang up and throw my phone on the bed behind me, then open the door, the handle clicking heavily. Fitz waits in the hallway.
I beam, because it’s become instinct with Fitz. He turns my insides into a collection of clichés, butterflies on roller coasters with wings of melting ice.
“Hey,” I say casually and with Herculean effort. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replies, matching my nonchalance. “Just stretching my legs. Nothing to do with how we kissed today and I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing to do with that?”
“Nope.” He runs his hand through his hair, and I’m suddenly a little self-conscious with my shower-slick hair dangling in a rope down my shirt. He looks profoundly kissable. “Lewis is on the phone with Prisha,” he explains. “I wondered if I could hang out with you.” His bravado fades, replaced by a hint of trepidation.
“Of course,” I say, opening the door wider. I don’t know why he’s nervous until he walks in and I close the door. I’m instantly aware we’re alone in a hotel room together.
My recently showered state of dress promptly becomes the least pressing thing on my mind. I’m not nervous, exactly. I’m just a mixture of excited and uncertain and incredibly conscious of our present circumstances. I have no idea if the combination is combustible.
Fitz sits on the bed. Then he immediately jumps back up.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to sound casual and hearing my own jumping nerves come through. “You can sit there.”
Slowly, he does. “I want you to know, I’m not— I don’t mean— This isn’t a move,” he says haltingly. “I really did need to give Lewis privacy.”
“Would it be bad if it were a move?” I sit next to him on the bed. Our shoulders come close to touching.