Chapter 6

Rubbing my eyes,I wonder what woke me up in the middle of the night. The rise and fall of Blue's voice comes from downstairs. I'm brand new to this custodian-father figure gig, but I'm pretty sure it's a bad sign.

Suddenly on alert, I throw on a T-shirt, having grown accustomed to sleeping only in sweatpants or pajama bottoms.

Downstairs, I find the dim kitchen light illuminating two figures seated at the kitchen table. Between them, they have two cups of milk.

"Everything okay?" I ask, trying to mask the concern in my voice.

"I couldn't sleep," Blue says as if she's going to get in trouble.

Whit, wearing a striped cotton T-shirt and shorts set has her hair in a messy bun on top of her head. Adjusting her eyeglasses, she says, "Me neither."

"Well, I was having pleasant ice skating dreams on a river of milk...The puck was a cookie... Yeah, that's weird," I add and then go silent.

Whit's lips purse as if to say reminding my sister of my sweet slumber doesn't help the situation…and maybe annoyed that I'm here, interrupting her sweet dreams. I argue back with my eyes, suggesting that showing her there's nothing to be afraid of would boost her confidence that she's safe here…and perhaps my being here isn't so much of a burden.

But Whit doesn't know Blue's full story. I don't in its entirety other than our father had some shady business dealings and Blue was often left alone or with random people.

"Sometimes, when I was a kid and I'd sleep here, I couldn't fall asleep either. My grandma would warm up some milk and sit with me for a while. That always did the trick." Whit takes a long sip, leaving a white line of milk across her upper lip.

Blue blinks a few times as if expecting Whit to wipe it away. I do too, but she must not realize it's there. How could she not? Her lips are so... I study the woodgrains on the table, taking my focus off Whitney's lips.

Meanwhile, she continues talking about the old house and the fun she had here when she was a kid. There are stories of hiding in the hay bales, the cats causing trouble with the Christmas tree, and being her grandmother's official cookie taste tester. Then she tells the Simon the Squirrel Story—it's legendary around here. All the while, she nibbles her cookie and sips her milk, doing nothing to wipe away the milk mustache.

Then, to my surprise, Blue giggles. It's soft and tentative—nowhere near the roar of laughter that used to fill this kitchen but there all the same.

Whit frowns. "I don't know much about people in Colorado where you're from, but here, squirrels yowling in the middle of the night was no laughing matter. It would keep me awake all hours."

This has my sister in stitches. "No, it's not that," she all but gasps around growing laughter.

Whit lengthens her spine, her bun bobbing on her head, and takes another sip of milk, enhancing the mustache.

I have no doubt she's well aware of the milk mustache, but probably not how adorable she looks right now. All the same, the laughter must be contagious because a chuckle rolls through me. Either that or I'm tickled by the fact that she got my sister to look anything other than glum.

As Whit continues the story about a barn cat that looked an awful lot like a squirrel and would yowl all night, Blue grips her tummy with one hand and covers her mouth with the other as if she's used to being told to be seen but not heard. Our father used to say that to me plenty.

"Well, you don't have to worry about any cats haunting this house. They live in the barn. Plus, you have Baloo to protect you."

Blue, struggling to stop laughing, says, "You have a milk mustache."

"That's right. It's my new business. You guys were some of my first customers."

"No, you have one—" Blue traces her upper lip and then points to Whit.

She peers at me through her glasses, loose pieces of her wavy hair framing her face. "I've known your brother most of my life and I've never seen him with any sort of mustache until now." She taps her chin. "Not sure what I think of it."

Getting in on the fun, I take a sip of milk and let it paint the broom over my upper lip—the one I had to grow because I lost a bet.

"Now you have one too," Blue says.

"One what? I have a mustache, but it's not made of milk. I'm a man. Grew this in three days," I boast.

Blue takes a sip of milk, letting it coat the space above her upper lip, and says, "A milk mustache like this."

There's a big round of acknowledgment, we all laugh some more and indulge in the milk mustache life. Whit tells another story about one of the cats, a particularly large orange and white tomcat before Blue finally yawns.

We go upstairs with Baloo dutifully at our heels. My sister crawls back into bed and I say good night, thankful Whit knew how to handle that situation—I could tell Blue had been crying.

She's across the hall, half in a patch of moonlight shining through the window, and about to enter her room.

I move closer and whisper, "Thank you for that. For all of this, really. First night on the job and I'm already failing."

Her warm strawberry scent takes me back to a rainy day in the woods, and I steel myself against going there in my mind.

Whit says, "French fries, broccoli, and cookies. A kid-friendly meal. You get a few points for including a veggie."

"I've heard the team nutritionist for the Knights is nuts about macros and micros and whatever. Once preseason starts, the healthy foods will soon be coming in fast."

Whit winks from behind her glasses. "In that case, I'll make sure Blue gets a cookie every once in a while."

I let out a long breath, not having had the chance to talk to anyone about this. "The poor thing looks at every meal as if it might be her last."

"I'm sorry I thought she was your daughter and that my mistake likely brought up something neither of you wants to think about. I didn't know about your father," Whit speaks uncharacteristically gently.

I lean against the wall and scrub my hand down my face as the last few days catch up with me. "I didn't know I had a sister until a lawyer contacted me. Had to deal with child services. Her mother died a few years ago. I don't have a good grip on the story, other than that Blue spent a lot of time alone and is understandably cautious around new people. That was the first time I heard her laugh, no less smile, in the sixteen hours we've been together."

Whit extends her hand. It grazes my arm as if her instinct is to console me, but then she quickly withdraws. I'd like to lean into it because the changes in my life have been abrupt. However, she and I have an unspoken agreement—we're not friends, never were, never will be, and the kiss during the camping trip was a mistake. Though I didn't think so at the time.

Had anyone noticed we were missing and sent out a search party, they would've found us instantly, as we lit up the night with an explosion of fireworks. Her lips on mine were warm, welcoming, explosive.

"I'm glad to help and, um, you guys can stay here for the summer. But make no mistake, I'm doing it for Blue." Whit wags her finger at me.

I'm about to decline, but more upheaval for my sister probably isn't a good idea. Straightening, I ask, "Really? I don't want to impose. I genuinely thought the house was empty."

"Maybe we can figure out a way to get back at Clancy." Mischief creeps across Whit's features in the dim light.

Considering he asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend, the web is tangling by the moment. But I can't tell her that. Otherwise, she'll probably make me sleep in the barn.

"Thanks for not telling my sister about how Clancy said girls had cooties, and how I was terrified to talk to you because I didn't want to catch them."

"Cooties? You're afraid of cooties?" Whit arches an eyebrow, stepping toward me.

"Of course I was. Past tense."

She slowly shakes her head and wiggles her fingers, continuing her approach. I'm afraid she's going to poison me with cooties even though I still don't know what they are if I'm being honest. "I bet that fear extended into high school because you certainly didn't talk to me then. My two best friends abandoned me and became the popular guys, leaving me in the dust."

With each step Whit takes closer, I shuffle back. I'm not all that concerned about cooties. More like what'll happen if we touch.

Hopefully, there's a fire extinguisher around here.

She backs me toward the other end of the hall where my room is.

"I think you're still terrified of cooties."

No, just you and what'll happen if our mouths meet again. It would be rude for a house guest to set the place ablaze.

Once more, my back is against the wall, but this time Whit stands in front of me. I'm reminded that I've grown a few inches since high school and could escape with a flick of my wrist and a twist of my stance. Is it wrong that I don't want to make space between us?

In the moonlight, our gazes catch. But rain doesn't patter outside. Hail doesn't threaten our safety. However, the wind whispers across the old windowpanes, possibly bringing with it change. Whit isn't the same girl I used to know. She has a heart somewhere in her chest and the draw I feel toward her, despite my better sensibilities, tells me not to turn her away.

But she backs up as if suddenly aware of what's happening.

I've never noticed the exact moment when a rain shower stops, but this is it. All at once, the air goes still and falls flat. The buzz between us disappears.

Whit says, "Blue doesn't need to see her brother fall from grace."

"Thanks for that."

"For not telling your sweet little sister that you're a dumb butt? You're welcome, but you owe me." I hear a smile in Whit's voice. It's better than the scowl she met me with twice today—once at her food truck and again when she found me in her home.

"I appreciate you not going full frost on me."

"Are you saying I'm cold?"

"Like ice. At least you used to be."

She folds her arms in front of her chest. "You and my brother were mean. I had to protect myself somehow."

"Is that why you turned into Wild Whit queen of teen angst back in high school?"

She gazes at her feet and then shrugs. "Yeah. Maybe. It was a confusing time. I was one of the guys and then I wasn't. Clancy and you made me feel unwelcome. It upset me. I thought you'd have my back."

Stepping closer, my palm lifts to her shoulder, my fingers sliding onto her back. Her frame is small and warm under my touch. Thankfully, we don't start a house fire, but I burn up inside being this close.

Her eyes trail to my hand and her shoulders lift on a shaky breath. Gaze flitting to mine, they pause on my mouth. Like the world being plugged back into the electric socket, the memory of the kiss comes back, full-spectrum with highlights and details. It turns out, they're ones I wouldn't mind replicating.

Whit clears her throat, once more breaking the moment. "What's with the mustache?"

"You don't like it?" I smooth my pointer and thumb down along it and toward the corners of my mouth.

"Yes. No. It doesn't matter whether I like it."

I grunt. "You're wondering if I like it. It's a change. Don't hate it. I did at first. Grew it because I lost a bet and have to send a selfie to Brett and the guys on my old team as proof of mustache life."

"You lost...something." She chuckles softly.

"Yeah, a bet."

Then I realize the subtext...and the misunderstanding all those years ago when Whit and I were nearly in this same position, alone. Yeah, I lost something. I lost her.

"Good night, James," she says abruptly as if the moment between us is getting too sultry for an early summer night.

"Good night, Whitney," I reply.

But I don't go into my room until she opens her door. Glancing over her shoulder, once more, our eyes meet.

My chest thumps as something unspoken and unnamed flickers and then sparks between us. I'd asked if this town was going to be big enough for us both, but the real question is this house?