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hey, my sister's voice called, isn't that harlow lance's sweater ?
i glanced up in alarm at caysie, older than me by a mere two and a half minutes, and followed her gaze to my backpack, where part of the sleeve was hanging out.
shit.
oh, yeah, i said, praying to anything and everything my voice sounded normal. he asked me to hang onto it.
caysie dangled upside down from her bed, right across from my own, her inquisitive brown eyes boring into mine. you love him.
i nearly choked. what ?
sweetheart, caysie said. i can see it in your goddamned eyes, every time you ever look at him.
lower your voice, i said in a panic, glancing nervously at our bedroom door. the walls were thin as paper in this house ; if our mom heard, jesus, if my dad heard, no one could predict the shit that might go down.
so it's true ? caysie asked, her voice a borderline squeal.
i never said that.
you never denied it, either, caysie pointed out.
i sighed, missing the days when we were younger, when the only thing caysie ever forced me to tell her was where i'd hidden the bag of m&m's ; when we were the dumb, the wild, the free, when everything was so much simpler, so much easier.
caysie, i finally said. mom and dad . . . if they found out . . .
she smiled. you think i don't already know that ? she sat up and moved over to my bed, plopping down beside me and mussing my hair. your beautiful secret's safe with me, lan-lan. now give me all the juicy little the details. i mean, giving you his sweater ? christ. that's the kind of romance i want.
i gave a faint smile and lifted my shoulders in a slight shrug. he kissed me, i said. and then he said it looked better on me than it did him.
caysie giggled in delight. my god, corlan, this boy is a fucking dreamboat. hold on to him.
