You and Everything After

“It’s just going to take time,” I say.

“Says the man who has never gone a day without talking to his brother,” she says back quickly.

“I know. I’m lucky. They don’t make all siblings like Nate. But don’t you dare tell that little turd I said that,” I say, tilting my neck up to see if the hallway is still quiet. It is.

Cass giggles. “Turd is a funny word,” she says. There’s a long silence after this. Palpable. It’s not uncomfortable, but just the opposite. There’s nothing grand about this moment, nothing remarkable at all. It’s one of hundreds of phone conversations Cass and I are going to have, have had.

But something. Just. Feels. Right.

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” I put it out there. I haven’t said it. But I know she knows. And I know she loves me back. The words—they’re just like a period on the end of our very long, run-on sentence.

“I know,” she says, almost a whisper. I can’t see her, but I know she’s smiling. And blushing. And beautiful.

“Good,” I smile. I’m not as sleepy as I was a few minutes ago. Instead, now I feel warm and happy and ready to stay awake all night.

“I sorta kinda love you too,” she says, her voice meek and embarrassed. It’s sweet.

“Well don’t go crazy there and get too committed with those words. Best to hedge your bets,” I tease. I know she’s just nervous. Her laugh is muffled, probably by her pillow. “So, since I love you more, and I clearly said it first, I think that means I’m the winner, right?”

“You are sooooo not the winner,” she says, stronger now. My little ninja princess.

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure if we called up to the booth they would rule in my favor,” I say.

“Nooooo,” she protests—always so competitive. “They would see through your sneak attack. The playing field was definitely not even. I think you’d get disqualified.”

“Only one way to know,” I say, covering the phone with my hand. “Nate! Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan—” He hates it when I use his full name, so he makes his way down the hall to my room fast, pushes open the door completely, and flips on the light.

“What?” He’s so pissed off. This will be funny.

“Cass and I need you to settle something for us,” I say, and his eyebrows rise, barely interested, so very annoyed. “I clearly said I love you first. But Cass thinks because I didn’t give her a fair warning that mine doesn’t count and she wins the I love you game.”

Nate is staring at me, doing that blinking thing he does when he’s not sure what to say; then he takes a deep breath. “This is stupid,” he finally lets out, and turns his back to walk away. “Cass is right; she wins.”

“I think the judge is biased!” I yell.

“Yeah, well…the judge thinks you’re an asshole for making him get up with fifteen seconds left in the game,” he hollers.

“I win! I win, I win, I win!” Cass squeals on the phone.

“I’m filing an appeal,” I say, smiling and loving her. Loving that I said it. Loving how easy it was. Loving that everything about this was so very us—that there is an us, and it’s simple to define.

Chapter 27

Cass

“I can’t believe you actually sang in front of, how many people?” I ask Rowe, who has been talking a million miles per second for the last ten minutes, still feeling the adrenaline from her surprise visit to Nate at his tournament game.

I knew the second she read Nate’s letter she would have to chase him. Ty hooked her up with one of the public-relations reps for the tournament venue, and got her in to sing the national anthem. He said she was coming in from McConnell, and had sung a few times at the school, “Always a crowd favorite,” he told them. I’m pretty sure the only people who have ever heard Rowe sing before are Ty, Nate and me. She’s not bad, but I’m guessing the crowd probably wasn’t blown away either. My boyfriend can sell anything.

“A few thousand. Oh my god, Cass. It was so crazy! My hands were shaking, and I swear I thought I was going to drop the microphone when I got to the part about the bombs bursting in air,” she’s still talking fast. It’s cute. And she sounds so happy.

“I wish I could have been there,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut, and wishing when I open them again that everything looks right, straight—not blurred. It’s my right eye. It’s been like this for more than twenty-four hours now. It’s been like this for two days. And I probably shouldn’t ignore it. But I’m going to. It’s going to go away. This is going to go away.