Page 99 of The Storm

“Rise and shine.” I take a step back before she can kick me.

She drops her head back to the bed and drags a pillow over her face. “You’re a psychopath.”

“You’ve been summoned. Mom’s home, and Dad put his muse on hold in your honor. Nick made dinner.”

That gets her. She drags the pillow lower and frowns at me. “To poison us?”

I pick up the pillow and throw it at her head. “He’s being sweet. Nice. I mean he’s being… Nick. You don’t get it. He’s really… Nick.”

I love him.

Whoa. No way am I going to just come out and say that.

I have to sort of ease her into it. Right after easing Nick into it.

Dia’s eyebrows have risen higher and higher throughout that whole awkward, fumbling speech. She narrows her eyes once I’m done.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Excuse me for being happy you’re home.”

She squints even harder. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s all for me. No, this is something else.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“Come one. Everybody’s waiting for you. Last one there is a loser.”

“We’re not five,” she says, but she’s already sliding herself toward the edge of the bed. I take a step toward the door. Her feet hit the floor. In a matter of milliseconds, she’s tripped me and is running down the stairs. I race after her and make it to the kitchen a few steps behind her. Just in time to see her raise her arms in the air and let out a whoop.

“Suck it, loser.” She points at my face.

Mom lets out an exasperated sigh before she smiles. “Sweetheart. We missed you so much.”

Dia hugs her and Dad. Five minutes later we’re all seated around the table with plates of food in front of us. Dia launches into stories about LA. Traffic—terrible. Weather—perfect. Auditions—amazing.

She met someone who definitely knows someone famous. Like, actually this time.

Mom and Dad fill her in on what’s been happening at home. Most of it is the usual.

I pay as much attention as I can, which is a feat because Nick is sitting right next to me, close enough that every small movement registers. My knee brushes against his underneaththe table. It’s just a moment, but I go still anyway. A few tense seconds tick by, and then his knee presses back.

My breath catches for half a second before I force myself to breathe again. I reach for my glass, mostly so I have something to do with my hands. When I set the glass back down, the back of my hand touches his where it rests on the table.

I pull it away quickly, face burning hot. I squeeze my thigh with my fingers and tell myself to be normal.

Underneath the tablecloth, his fingers brush mine again.

And then he links his pinky with mine.

And we sit and have dinner with my family.

Holding fingers.

TWENTY-SEVEN

INDY