He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers and looking down at her. "Then be who you are."
She stared back at him, unable to come up with a reply. They stayed there, knees wedged against each other, hands knotted against the notebooks in her lap. Joined foreheads completed their breathing triangle.
When her door clicked closed, both pulled away. David stood on the edge of the common room, his bag by his feet. He pointed to the cups on the table. "I was looking for the coffee. And you."
Jackson and Fiona stood up at the same time, the Moleskines tumbling to the floor between them. She rubbed her hands on her jeans, while he leaned over to pick up his backpack. After an awkward moment, Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets, said, "Have a good flight," and walked to the stairwell.
Fiona took a breath. "It's not what it looks like."
"What's it look like?"
"We're just . . . he's been someone to talk to. Up here."
"About?"
She pointed to the notebooks at her feet. "All this-all my-ridiculous stuff."
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed in front of him. His voice came out sharp, his posture seemed rigid. "We've dated two years, and you've never told me any ridiculous stuff."
"You've never asked."
"I've asked plenty."
Fiona sank to the couch. David stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. "Any particular reason you were never compelled to talk to me?" he asked.
"I have no idea. Maybe-I never felt the need? Like I had to?"
"And you do with him."
She shrugged.
He watched her a long time before he eventually pushed himself from the wall, shaking his head. "Guess that's all I'm getting."
"David, I-"
He slid the strap of his bag over his shoulder then stood there, waiting. Fiona willed herself to say something, to say the words that explained all of this. But the girl who could fill notebook upon notebook with her thoughts and words suddenly had nothing to offer.
David looked at his watch. "I've gotta go."
"Let me get a coat." She stood. "I'll come with you to the station."
"No. Don't." He adjusted his strap, zipped his jacket. "I know the way."
They stood there another long moment, Fiona by the couch, David a few feet from her.
"I'm not sure what to say," Fiona said.
David laughed-a bitter laugh, not like him. "That says it all."
APRIL
FI
Fi sat at her dad's desk, finishing her paper. The professor gave them the choice to write something new-or go back to one essay they'd already completed and make it better. She'd decided to redo her essay on "I should have known better than to let you go alone." She had a different view of things now.
She was working with the poem in Marcus's Moleskine: "Never May the Fruit Be Plucked" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
It was a beautiful-and sad-poem.
Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
And gathered into barrels.
He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.
Though the branches bend like reeds,
Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,
He that would eat of love must bear away with him
Only what his belly can hold,
Nothing in the apron,
Nothing in the pockets.
Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough
And harvested in barrels.
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,
In an orchard soft with rot.
She was biting her nails, deciding whether the essay should be about Marcus-or about her-when Ryan's picture popped up beside the video chat icon.
"Hey," she said, accepting the call. "What's up?"
The camera angle was weird and the lighting too yellow, but Ryan looked good. Over Christmas break, their dad had remarked that Ryan's muscles were finally catching up with his bones. He filled up more space now. "Oh," Ryan said. "I thought Mom would answer."
"She's out." Fi touched the screen, surprised at how she wished it was really him and not some satellite-generated substitute. "Your hair's long."
Pulling fingers through his hair, he shrugged. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Working on a paper." She leaned back in their dad's big leather chair, swiveling it side to side. "Trent said you're playing soccer now."
He watched her a second, like he was trying to figure out where she was going with this, but with the bad video, it was hard to gauge anything. "It's fun," he said eventually. "That's actually why I was calling. There's a summer camp up here-for little kids. I think I might stay and work."
"What about Gwen?"
"She'd stay, too."
Fi smirked. "Are you going to marry her?"
"Fi, I'm nineteen." Then he shrugged. "Yeah, probably."
"High school sweethearts-the odds aren't good."
"You wouldn't have married Marcus?"
At some point in her near past, that question would have sent Fi into her turtle shell. She couldn't say when or why or even how she had moved forward. But she had, even if only a little. "It's one of those things we'll never know. It's not worth the energy, torturing myself over it, you know?"
Ryan nodded. "What's up with the grades?" he asked.
"So far, 3.0 for the semester. I still have finals, but I think it'll be okay."
"And then you're off probation? You can play again?"
Fi slowly nodded while biting the edge of her thumbnail.
"You're biting your nails. What's wrong?"
Fi frowned at her fingers. She hadn't realized she was so transparent. "Do you think I'd be crazy to write the NU coach? After everything?"
Ryan smiled a big, big smile-a real one. "It would be the least crazy thing you've done in years."
"There's no way she'll take me. My grades aren't great. I'm out of shape."
"Only one way to find out."
Still gnawing her cuticle, Fi nodded at his point. "I have no idea what to say."
"Do it now. I'll help you."
"Now?" Fi had planned on torturing herself over this for days-maybe weeks-before finally working up the courage to do something.
"Yeah. Pull up your email and let me see the screen."
Contacting the coach had been her idea. Now it felt like he was taking over. Like he was pushing too hard. "First, tell me why you want to help me."
"What do you mean why? I want you to do this."
"But why do you want me to so badly?"
He rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Fi-what, you think I have some sinister motive?"
"Not sinister." Fi shrugged, casually rolling a pencil back and forth while telling her brother this deep truth. "But you like to take over. Boss me around."
"I boss you around?" he repeated.
"Uh, yeah. I'm always in your shadow."
"You are in my shadow?" Even in the awkward, yellowish light, Fi detected the blood rising in her brother's cheeks. "Are you high?"
"What's that mean?"
His laugh came out a little bitter. "Fi, I was the short, mediocre brother of one of the state's best lacrosse players. The only reason I played the damn sport was because I got caught up in your obsession-which I didn't even realize until I came up here and did intramural soccer."
"You didn't like lacrosse?"
"You and Trent had enough fire to cover me."
Fi's head hurt a little from this sudden realization. "So . . . the offer to help, with the email, that's because-"
"You. Are. My. Sister."
"What about after Marcus died? All the comments about dating other guys and transferring schools and everything? You were about as subtle as a brick to the head."
"You were miserable." He drew out the last word, like he could make each of the four syllables into its very own word.
"You were annoying," she said, doing her best to mimic him, but it was less impressive with only three syllables.
"Sorry," he said, though he didn't sound it. Then he softened a bit to add, "I was trying to help."
"You can trust me, you know-with my life. It's not like I want to ruin it."
"It looked like you were really trying for a while there."
Fi couldn't argue this point. "So that's it? Just because I'm your sister?" She waved her hand vaguely. "And you love me or whatever."
"Lord! Yes-that's it!" He dragged his fingers through his hair like he wanted to pull it out. "You're infuriating."
"I've heard."
Now he frowned. "From who?"
Fi rolled her eyes-not at her brother, more at the length of the list. "Mom and Dad. My advisor. Jackson. Trent."