But JD’s tired, wary expression knocked the smile off her face. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“So, our Reign of Silence is over?” she asked with false cheer as he swung open the door. He shrugged but didn’t respond, just turned and let her follow him through the foyer and into the den.
They settled in the den, as usual, but the awkward silence between them was unfamiliar. Em tried not to picture JD and Drea cozied up here on the couch. What if he’d told her about Em’s crazy ritual? Then there was a girlish squeal from the doorway between the kitchen and the den.
“Emmmmmmmmm!” It was Melissa standing there with her hair in a braid and a bag of tortilla chips in her hands.
“Hey, Melly,” Em said, grateful for the distraction.
“Thank goodness,” Mel said, crunching on a chip.
“Thank goodness what?” Em said.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Mel said, as though it was the most obvious thing on Earth. “I was starting to think you didn’t love us anymore!”
“We need some privacy, Melly,” JD said. But his voice wasn’t exasperated. It had softened.
“Whatever,” his sister replied. “I have to go upstairs anyway. I’m in the middle of a chat.”
Em laughed as Mel scampered out of the room and they heard her footsteps racing upstairs. “I swear, that girl is going to be in PR,” she said. “She is constantly connected.” Em and JD had always agreed that Mel could enter the Guinness World Records for fastest texter ever.
“I know. . . . She just about makes up for my being a social hermit,” JD said.
“You’re not a hermit, JD. More like . . . more like Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Who?”
Em rolled her eyes. “You know, from Pride and Prejudice. At first everyone thinks he’s aloof because he isn’t into dancing and partying with the rest of them. But then, once you get to know him, you realize he has a heart of gold. And also a kick-ass mansion. And the only reason he didn’t want to dance was because he sucks at dancing.”
JD cracked a smile. “Sooooo, you’re saying I’m not a hermit, I’m just a bad dancer?”
Em laughed. “Well, that wasn’t really the point I was going for, but it’s not exactly untrue, either.” Without thinking, she reached out and poked him with a finger.
He swatted her finger away, and for a second it was like there was something warm in JD’s eyes—that old familiar look. In its glow she saw that he, like her, was recalling all those shared root beer floats and epic thumb wars on the couch. Or maybe New Year’s Eve in Boston, when he’d stood behind her during the fireworks, their bodies touching, his breath near her ear. Remembering it made a warmth spread through her lower belly, toward her heart.
But then his face went dark again. A lot had happened between then and now.
“So,” she stumbled on, grasping for neutral ground, “what are you writing your English paper about?”
“Asimov, I think,” he said. “Something about how humans tend to be their own downfall.”
“I guess I should have known,” Em said. JD had loved Isaac Asimov since middle school. She remembered a Fount-Winters family vacation in Cape Cod during the summer between seventh and eighth grades, when he’d summarized, in vivid detail, the plot of I, Robot to her on a walk from their cabin to the ice cream stand. It was the only time she’d ever cared about science fiction. JD, on the other hand, had been inspired. His love for all things technical—from computer graphics to stage lighting to car parts—made him fascinated by how humans interact with machines.
She looked at him, ready to share the memory, but found that he was staring at her intensely. He wasn’t thinking about I, Robot.
He spoke suddenly and seriously. “Listen, Em, I texted you for a reason. We can’t just avoid talking about what happened the other night. In the cemetery. What the hell is going on with you? People are worried. I’m worried.”
Em offered a weak smile, one that she hoped conveyed something like sheepishness. “You were right, JD, about me being more affected by Chase’s and Sasha’s deaths than I admitted,” she said, offering the answer she’d rehearsed at home. “I’ve been . . . a little off my rocker. I feel almost like I’m responsible.”
“Jesus, Em,” he said gently. “That’s terrible. You know you’re not, right? And you’re hurting yourself because of it? You need to talk to someone.”
“I know.” She nodded seriously. “I’m taking the right steps. I’m figuring it out.” That wasn’t a lie, per se.
He seemed to accept what she was saying. But he wasn’t finished.