“He couldn’t,” I say quietly, so only she can hear it, but the way Frankie laughs says otherwise.
“See?” Frankie says, raising his hands. “No harm done.”
Peak rests her head on my shoulder. “Good.”
“How do you two know each other?” I ask. I’m missing something. He’s not a romantic rival, clearly, but he also seems like more than just a friendly neighborhood barista.
“My mom and her stepmom are best friends,” Frankie says. “When Vera married JuJu’s mom, she and I effectively became family.”
“He’s the big brother I never wanted and can’t seem to get rid of.” Peak laughs, and Frankie pretends to whack her on the head. I still feel that pang of jealousy, but now it’s for a different reason. I’m homesick for a life I never had, where I had best friends and a loving family and bonds that don’t break.
Peak seems to sense the shift in my mood and squeezes my hand again. “Ridley, Frankie just got back. He’s in the navy.”
“I was underway for a while,” he says proudly, and I feel like I should know what that means. “How did you guys . . . ?” he trails off, gesturing between us.
“Ridley started hanging around Verona,” she says, and I hate that she’s covering for me. I just want to tell the truth, no more lies.
Frankie plants his hand over his forehead and pretends to swoon. “Love across the comic racks.”
“We actually met—” I start to say, but then stop. Maybe Peak doesn’t want people to know about our night at the con. Maybe she’s not protecting me; maybe she’s ashamed.
“At a prom at one of the cons we were at,” she says, and I look up in confusion. “He had a Batman mask; I was dressed like a peacock.”
“A peacock?”
“From Fighting Flock.”
“It was a very intense outfit,” I say before I catch myself. Peak blushes and Frankie shakes his head.
“Frankie?” a voice calls through the kitchen doors.
“I better get back there before my mom flips. But remember,” he says, jabbing Peak in the chest, “don’t do anything I would do.”
I scrunch my forehead. “Isn’t it ‘wouldn’t do’?”
“Trust me,” Peak says. “He definitely means ‘would.’”
Frankie snorts and gives me a fake stern look before pointing at his eyes and then pointing back at me. I give him a salute, and he shakes his head.
“That is not how you salute, my dude.” He chuckles as he walks away.
Peak and I sit back down, and I slide a mug toward her. The air feels lighter, the mood happier, and she smiles when she takes a sip.
“Hey, so,” I say, hesitating when she looks up at me. “Um, he’s cool.”
“Yeah, you guys would probably hit it off.”
“He’s not really my type,” I say, and I don’t mean it the way it comes out, but she tips her head toward me.
“Are guys sometimes your type?” she asks, like that’s a normal question. Like it’s fine.
I take a deep breath, deciding how best to answer. I’ve had this conversation enough times to know that admitting I’m bi doesn’t always go well. Girls especially seem to be freaked out by it. Usually I just lie and try to pretend I’m straight or gay depending on the circumstances. It’s less drama, even if it makes my stomach hurt and my chest feel like it’s caving in all the time.
But. No more lying. Not to her.
She leans in closer. “You don’t have to answer. But you don’t have to not answer either.”
I stare down at my cocoa. “I guess certain people are just my type?” I say it like it’s a question, even though it’s not.
“Same,” she says.
“I figured from what you said that first day at the shop.”
“Then why did you freak out when I asked about you?”
I spin my mug around in my hands. “I don’t know. Bad past experiences, I guess.”