“They’re always stupid,” he counters, and I desperately want to argue with him. I want to insist that what happened downstairs isn’t how our brothers—or our mom—really feel, but Bryce’s lispy impersonation is still fresh in my mind, and maybe Kale is right. Maybe I give them too much credit.
“Do you know what Leti would have done?” I ask instead of disagreeing. Every morning since we met at Starbucks last week, when he predicted we’d be third-best friends, we’ve met up there, and now I guess it’s become our thing.
Kale looks up from the floor to catch my answer, and I use my hands to demonstrate. “He would’ve responded extra flamboyantly just to make everyone uncomfortable.”
When I finish flicking my wrists around like Bryce did downstairs, Kale cracks a smile and lets out a little chuckle. I join him on the floor a moment later, my back resting against the door and my shoulder attaching itself to his.
“They wouldn’t act like that if they knew,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
“If they did, I’d beat the shit out of them. You know I would.”
“I know,” Kale agrees, resting the side of his head against mine.
We sit like that forever, neither of us admitting that we miss the hell out of each other. Even after three years of sleeping under different roofs, I miss being able to sneak over to my twin’s room at night to share blackmail on our older brothers or watch scary movies that leave us both too terrified to sleep.
Sometimes, Kale works on my nerves. But most of the time, he makes me feel . . . whole. Like a piece of my heart that sometimes leaves my chest.
“I want you to meet Leti,” I say with my head still resting against his.
Kale doesn’t budge. “You’re not setting me up.”
“Of course not.”
It’s a lie, and because he’s Kale, he knows it, and because I’m me, I know he knows it.
When he elbows me, I elbow him back, and we keep going like that until I’m sure I have a bruise on my arm and he’s rubbing his and telling me he gives up. “Mean,” he scolds.
I move to sit on the edge of my bed, resisting the urge to rub my tingling bicep. “You started it.”
“It’s not my fault you’re annoying.”
“It’s not my fault I met the guy of your dreams.”
Kale shushes me and shifts away from the door to peek out of it. He closes it softly and scoots across the hardwood floor toward my bed. “Just because you met one gay guy, one, does not make him perfect for me. Being gay does not make him my soul mate or something.”
“He’s also funny and sweet and smart.” Kale rolls his eyes, and I grin like a Cheshire cat. “And ridiculously hot. He’s tall, with a great body and this sexy golden-bronze hair. He can rock a pair of sunglasses like nobody’s business.”
“Then maybe you should date him. God knows you’re boyish enough.”
“You’re going to regret saying that when you’re begging me to set you up.”
“In your dreams.”
When I smirk at Kale, he scoffs at me. “If you want to talk about boys so much, why don’t we talk about Shawn? Are you back in love with him yet?”
When I lose my smile, his falls away too.
“Oh God . . . you’re in love with him again.”
I groan, collapse sideways onto my bed, and bury my face under a pillow—coming face-to-face with my phone and desperately wanting to check to see if I have any more texts from Shawn. I’m not in love with him again, am I? Even when all I want to do is rush Kale out of my room right now so I can stare at his face on my screen some more? So I can giggle in my Jeep, break traffic laws all the way home, and—ugh, God.
“Seriously, Kit?”
“He’s stupid,” I whine into my pillowcase.
“Why is he stupid?” Kale asks, and I inhale a slow breath through the cotton.
“Because he makes me stupid,” my muffled voice complains. He makes my heart do cartwheels. He makes me giggle at my freaking phone.
Another pillow smacks me hard over the pillow covering the back of my head. “Stop being annoying and tell me what the hell you’re saying.”
I pull the pillows away and glare at Kale through the thick web of hair falling over my eyes. “Why do you want to know anyway? You hate Shawn.”
“Which you should too.”
“That was six years ago, Kale.”
“Has he said he’s sorry?”
“How can he be sorry for something he doesn’t remember?” While Kale grimaces at me, I struggle to sit up and brush the hair out of my face.
“He should say sorry for not remembering.”
“Now who’s stupid?” I whack him with a pillow, catching only the forearm he lifts to block me.
“Still you. Why not meet some of the other hot guys in town?” He snatches the pillow away and continues rubbing Shawn in my face. “You live by a huge college, for God’s sake. You’ve got to be swimming in them.”
“They’re all Polos,” I complain, and it takes Kale a little longer than usual—two seconds, almost three—but eventually the static on our twin frequency clears and he shoots me a flat look.
“Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”