Chapter 5
When I got to the room, the door was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of Dottie.
She had started a fire (a skill she’d acquired while hacking a path through the , I assumed), and now she was curled up in a chair, watching the flames.
Light and shadow danced across her face, softening its familiar lines.
The energy and enthusiasm and—joy, I guess—all the traits that normally showed so prominently in her expression, had slackened.
She looked like she needed someone to comb her hair, and the thought was unfamiliar, disorienting.
I tapped the wood and inched the door open.
Rousing herself, she said, “Oh. Hey, Dasher. Come in.”
The carpet was softer than I remembered, plusher, and my stockinged feet whispered against it. The only other sound was the crackle of the flames. She had turned her attention back to the fireplace again, and little lights danced in her eyes.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” she said as I sank into a chair. “I keep telling myself not to do that, and then the minute I’m around you, it’s like we’re kids again, and I don’t know how to turn it off.”
I thought about that. “Honestly, you couldn’t have picked a better audience. They all loved it, obviously.”
“They all love you,” she corrected gently.
“The jury’s still out on Keme.”
She glanced at me. “God, Dasher, sometimes I forget you are totally hopeless.”
“Hey, hold on. I still have the upper hand here.”
That made her smile—a smoke-and-shadow thing, maybe nothing more than a trick of the fire. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I should have picked a different picture. I’m sorry about the stuff with Jake. God, I’m such an idiot sometimes.”
“What? Who cares? I’m more worried about Dasher the Loneliest Reindeer. You realize Fox is going to make me do a performance now, don’t you? I’m going to have to find somewhere to buy antlers.”
“I mean I’m sorry it happened in front of your friend.”
It took me a moment before I managed to say, “Bobby?”
The disbelief in my voice made her grin, and there was no mistaking it this time.
Something about that grin—about how she looked at me, and about how the look went on and on—made me start to sweat.
And then I noticed that, this close to the fire, the heat was stifling.
It pressed against me, so heavy it felt crushing.
“Oh my God,” she said with what sounded like glee.
I managed to say, “No.”
“Oh my God!”
“No, no.”
“You’ve got it bad!” She wriggled around in the blanket to face me, and maybe it was just that the light hit her differently now, but she looked more like herself. “Dish.”
“There’s no dish. There’s nothing to dish. Zero dishing.”
“Dasher, I’m your older sister.”
“I don’t want an older sister. Fox wants an older sister. You can be Fox’s older sister.”
“Oh my God, I’d be such a good older sister for them.” But then Dottie pulled herself back to the moment, all business again. “How long have you been going out?”
“We’re not going out.”
“How long have you been hooking up?”
“We’re not hooking up. We’re just friends.”
“Have you kissed?”
“Are you insane?”
“Am I insane? You’ve got this sizzling hot guy living under the same roof, and he’s totally into you, and you haven’t jumped his bones? What are you waiting for? You need to get on that, Dasher. You should jump his bones tonight!”
“Be quiet,” I whispered furiously, with a scandalized glance at the door. “Nobody is jumping—nobody is—we’re just friends!”
She stared at me with what could only politely be called disbelief. And then, in a tone of infinite disappointment, she said, “This is Adam Queen all over again.”
“It isn’t—”
“It is! You’ve got this gorgeous guy who can’t take his eyes off you—”
“Give me a break.”
“He fell into a swimming pool because you took your shirt off!”
“That was an accident. And anyway, Bobby—”
“If you say ‘is just a friend,’ I’m going to show them the other pictures of Dasher. The ones with the very unfortunate antler placement.”
I decided silence was the better part of valor.
A log popped. Sparks eddied up, drifted, and went dark. For a moment, the smell of the wood smoke, the bickering, the sound of the ocean—it brought back winter nights from my childhood. All of Dottie’s confidence, all of her desire to live deeply and fully, pitted against—well, me.
“Please tell me you like him,” she finally said. “I’m your sister, and I ask for so little.”
I rolled my eyes. Pointedly.
“Please, Dasher. Please. Do this one little thing for me.”
I fought against myself. I struggled. But it was hard because she was so excited for me and because, if I were being honest with myself, I wanted to talk about it. (A little.)
“I mean,” I said, and then I stopped. And finally, the best I could come up with was “Yeah.”
“Oh my God.”
“Please don’t be happy.”
“I’m not happy. I’m excited.”
“Please don’t be excited.”
“I lied. I am happy. And excited. And thrilled and stoked and—Dasher, that’s great!”
“No, it’s terrible. Everything’s terrible. Don’t feel any of those things. Don’t feel anything about anything, actually.”
But she was smiling at me. “Is he nice? He seems nice.”
“God, he’s so nice it’s ridiculous.”
She made a sound like that was the cutest thing in the world. “Is he good to you?”
I decided on a judicious “He’s a good friend.”
She made that sound again. And then she started crying. “That’s good, Dasher. That’s good. I’m so happy for you. You deserve someone wonderful in your life. You deserve the absolute best. That’s what I want—I want you to be happy.”
(At least, that’s what I thought she said; it was hard to tell through all the crying.)
The tears were coming faster now, and I probably sounded a little panicked as I said, “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I am happy, Dottie. I’m so happy. You don’t have to cry.”
That just made her cry harder.
And then I realized I’d let myself get sidetracked. Dottie hadn’t traveled around the globe and shown up unannounced at Hemlock House because she wanted to dish (ugh, that word) about boys.
I grabbed a box of tissues from the dresser. I settled on the hearth, as close to Dottie as I could get without burning my biscuits (so to speak), and I handed her a few of the tissues.
“Okay,” I said. And then, even though I knew I’d hate myself later: “Dish.”
She blotted her eyes with the tissues. She sucked in ragged lungfuls of air. She shook her head. And then, the words escaped. “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, Dottie,” I said. “Oh.”
(I know. Not great.)
“Is that a good thing?” I asked. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.” And then, more urgently, “I don’t know. I can’t think clearly, Dash. My hormones are so messed up. I cry all the time, and my boobs—”
“Uh.”
I got a watery smile in response. “Half the time I’m scared out of my mind, and the other half of the time, I’m excited and scared out of my mind.”
I thought about my wild-child sister, who’d never had a steady job, who’d never had her own apartment, who couldn’t stand to be in the same place for longer than a week. I thought about what having a baby would mean for her. And then I heard what she’d said.
“Wait,” I said. “Excited?”
She was crying again, but she smiled as she mopped her eyes.
“That’s great. Oh my God, that’s fantastic.”
“Uncle Dasher.”
“Oh no, definitely not. But Dottie, I’m so happy for you!”
“I’m glad someone is.”
“What does that mean? What did Mom and Dad say?”
“I haven’t told them. I don’t want to tell them.”
“Because you think they’ll be angry?”
“Because—because I don’t know how I want them to feel. But I know whatever they do is going to drive me crazy.”
“What did you say about hormones?”
That broke the tension, and we both laughed.
“Stay,” I said. “As long as you want. Please, I’d love to have you here. I’m sorry—I’m sorry we got off to a rough start.”
“I just need a little time to figure things out,” she said as she leaned in to hug me. “Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair soon. I actually don’t know how you’ve managed to stay here for so long. It’s beautiful, Dasher, but I saw the town—it’s tiny. I’d be bored out of my mind.”
I managed to keep a straight face. “You’d be surprised.”