Chapter Six-and-Twenty #3
His hair is standing on end, a sure sign he’s been running his hands through it.
He sinks onto the foot of the couch, trapping my toes beneath his leg.
“I think it might. After you came out here, we called Gaby, and she … she’s considering it.
It’s a brilliant solution, Elle—so why didn’t I think of it?
” I’m momentarily amused by his inadvertent egotism.
(At least, I think it’s inadvertent.) But it’s clear his distress is real.
He props his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands, tightening his fingers against his scalp until I’m sure he must be causing himself pain.
I sit up and wrap an arm around his shoulders to give him a little shake.
“Because you’re her brother. Her protective, older brother who—let’s be honest—will probably always think of her as his baby sister, no matter how grown up she is.
Couple your concern for her with the fact you literally haven’t been allowed to imagine anyone else stepping into the role your father decided was yours twenty years ago, season it with a dash of jealousy that Gaby’s been able to break free in a way you couldn’t, and—”
At that, his head jerks up again and surprise flares in the depths of his dark eyes. “Jealousy?” he echoes. But it’s less challenge, more recognition, as if I’ve finally put a name to something he’s been feeling for years.
I wink at him. “It’s OK to be jealous sometimes. And it’s also OK with me if you want to take credit for my idea.”
“Too late,” he says with a wry little smile, as his hand skates up my bare calf to rest on my knee. “I already told her it was all you.”
“Does she also know,” I ask after a moment, “that you told me about what happened between her and Geoff?”
“Actually, that was her idea. When I called and told her how I managed to expose Winkworth for a fraud, I also explained that she’d misread the situation in New York and confessed to her how crazy I am about you.
She told me to do whatever I needed to make things right.
I just hadn’t worked out how yet. I was down to the final hours, wondering if you’d even answer my call …
when you—and the universe—took matters in hand. ”
It’s a relief to know she doesn’t hate me. Because the very last thing I would ever want to do is break her brother’s heart.
His thumb makes an absent circle on my kneecap. “I can’t believe you’re really here. That you came all this way to …” He shakes his head. “Did you actually try to read my math thesis?” he asks with an incredulous laugh.
“I believe the operative word would be try. But that’s all right, because it was you I wanted to understand better, not the math.”
That much is true. Along the way, however, I also managed to figure out that the kind of math Fisher is most interested in is wildly abstract, at least to a novice like me, while it’s obvious that the kind of computer science he’d be doing for his father’s company is practical, almost quotidian.
Computational systems, data analysis, that sort of thing.
I don’t believe someone with the soul of an artist should be forced to commit to a life of manufacturing paintbrushes.
But I’m not sure how he’d feel about that formulation.
“When you see someone with a gift,” I tell him instead, “you want them to be able to use it.”
“So it all comes back to this choose happiness philosophy of yours—”
“It’s not really mine,” I explain. “But yeah.”
“I’m not sure it holds up to scrutiny,” Mr. Rational cautions, cocking one eyebrow. “Surely sometimes happiness isn’t a choice.”
“Then we do the best we can. It’s the act of choosing that matters most.”
He shifts so I can sit up and move closer to him. “You took a huge risk, coming all this way. What if I felt my only choice was to stay, to be here for my dad?”
“Then at least you’d get to choose. It wasn’t really your choice before.”
He slips a hand around the side of my head, brushes his thumb across my cheek. “And what about your happiness?”
I think about my dream job offer at Grantham College, which doesn’t offer a doctoral degree in mathematics. I still have no idea how or if we’ll be able to work everything out.
“How could I be happy,” I tell him, “knowing you weren’t?”
He draws me to him for a lingering kiss.
“I know I told you I don’t believe in luck, but that isn’t entirely true.
Because I am so incredibly lucky to have you.
You’re so clever, so insightful, so … sharp,” he says, tipping our foreheads together so I can’t avoid his eyes.
There’s an urgency to his tone, like he knows that sometimes I doubt myself and he needs me to believe him.
“And I especially love that you looked both me and my dad in the eye and weren’t afraid to speak your mind. ”
“Wait.” I pull back a fraction in genuine disbelief. “Are you actually saying you like me for my impertinence?”
“Impertinence?” A tiny wrinkle of confusion darts between his brows, then smooths away as his smile broadens into a grin and he leans in for another kiss. “Yeah. I guess I am.”