Chapter 16 #2
“She took off because I did something terrible, Mila. She would’ve stayed.
And the fact that she took off has nothing to do with you, okay?
Nothing that went down between us had anything to do with you.
She still loves you, I’m sure of that. I mean, she’s Aria, and you’re her little Mila, the one she made bracelets for and did paint-by-numbers and baked Christmas cookies with, and that will never change. ”
“Even so,” she says, her cheeks flecked with red, shaking her head. Her bun waggles left, right, left, right. “Even so, Wy, it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t go to her anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re no longer together.”
That hurts. It sounds fake because Aria Moore and Wyatt Lopez are two names that just belong together.
“Listen, Mila. You and I are two different people. Just because the same blood is flowing through our veins doesn’t mean that you’ve got to suffer for things I’ve done.
I fucked up, you know? Aria left me, not you.
And if there’s one of us that’s just got to deal with the situation, then you should at least make sure to enjoy every second that she still loves you.
Because she does. There’s absolutely no reason to see things otherwise. ”
My little sister’s eyes rest on me. Her irises are the exact same color as mine. Chocolate brown. They’re only a little different right around the pupils, somewhat brighter, like a golden circle.
“Okay,” she whispers, but Camila isn’t the type to whisper, so she clears her throat and says it again, real loud and strong, because, if anything, she wants to be strong. “Okay.”
“Wow, all right, you don’t have to yell.”
Camila laughs.
I swear my heart starts to vibrate. This is the nicest thing I’ve felt in days, weeks, months, or even years—no idea. It’s nice, however long it’s been.
I stand up. “We going to go to this soup thing?”
“But I don’t want to try any.” She puts her notebook to the side and crawls out of her niche. “They’re always terrible, the soups.”
“You’ve got to try mine, though.”
“You made a soup?”
There is so much surprise and disbelief in her question; it’s like cooking was something superhuman.
“Yeah. I even signed up. I want to win that golden ladle.”
Camila follows me into the kitchen. Or, well, no, it’s more like she slides into the kitchen in her wool socks with the little yellow dots. “What do you want that for?”
“No idea. But I thought if I win, there’ll be a sense of achievement, right? People need that. Something that gives them the feeling of not being total dipshits.”
My sister gives me a half smile. “You’re not a dipshit, Wyatt.”
I smile back. “Thanks.” Then I hurry behind the island and lift the top off my pot. Camila peeps inside, full of expectation. I mean, I’ve made a soup! Hardcore!
But the excitement in her face disappears once she looks inside. “What is that?”
“Good, right?”
“It looks like vomit, Wy.”
“It’s banana pudding.”
“Banana pudding.”
I nod, the ladle in my hand ready to stir it again.
“You’re gonna lose.”
“Why?”
“Banana pudding isn’t soup.”
I click my tongue. “You’re taking that too literally. It’s William. You remember the cook-off two years ago? That’s when he…”
“Made lump-of-flour soup! That was so disgusting. He wanted us to eat it. Every one of us.” She makes a face. “I almost have to choke when I think about it. For real.”
I laugh. “Yeah, he was so convinced and simply didn’t get that everyone had taken off because of him.”
Camila blinks. Unsurprisingly, she looks a little disturbed. “Okay, Wy. I take it all back. Your banana pudding will make it.”
“Banana pudding is love.”
She wriggles her eyebrows, dips her finger into the pot, and licks it off before nodding. “Banana-pudding-love.”
“If William knew he was going to be eating something you’d stuck your unwashed finger in, he’d tear you apart.”
“How do you know I haven’t washed it?”
“Because you’re like this. When I come out of my room, the whole hallway smells bad because your mountain of laundry is emitting nuclear levels of old shirts. How much you want to bet that at the bottom of it you’ve got wet bikinis from last summer that are rotting away as we speak?”
“Could be.” She dips her finger in again. “This is pretty good.”
“There is a tower of old Coke cans under your bed.”
“Yeah and?”
“And your bathroom, man, the drain. Look, I’m breaking out in goose bumps, see? If I think about all the hair, rust, and who-knows-what living in perfect symbiosis in your shower drain, I start to gag.”
“But you’re not gagging right now.”
“Am, too. Inside. If you only knew.”
“We going to this thing or not?”
“Yeah.” I put the top back on and carry the pot out of the kitchen. “But when we get back, you’re going to clean your room.”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” she says as she slips into her god-awful UGGs, and I slip into my Timberlands.
When we both straighten up at the same time, she looks over her shoulder, and her bun wobbles again, left, right, left, right.
She laughs, not that lovely, long forgotten, unworldly kid’s laugh that’s still somewhere deep down inside her, but a real, open one.
“The rats, Wy, the rats would be disappointed.”
I love my sister and always will. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but always enough to the power of two.