Lily hovers by the staircase, her eyes big with questions and worry. For him, I realize. They both wear this soul-bearing empathy for one another that’s almost hard to stare at straight-on.
“Lily,” he calls out, his voice still sharp but urgent.
Without hesitation, she bounds towards him, entangling her arms around his waist, and together, they disappear into the kitchen. Leaving me alone with Connor and Rose, two people I rarely, if ever, talk to alone.
Sure, in group settings, they exist and persist—but I still don’t know them personally the way that I’ve come to know Daisy, Lo, and Lily. Even though they live here too, they’re constantly on the go—and with the little free time they do have, they make room for Lo, Lily, Ryke, and Daisy. Not really me. (I don’t blame them. I’m not that chatty or the greatest of company.)
So most of my information about Connor and Rose derive from Princesses of Philly and tabloids and eavesdropping (I try not to overhear but it happens).
I’ve read their bios on Wikipedia handfuls of times and deduced that they’re two intellectually superior human beings. I mean, they both graduated valedictorian of their prep schools and they competed in academic competitions all throughout college.
At this point in my life, I can barely pass Calculus.
I eye the closed kitchen door, worried about Lo. I strain my ears, but their voices aren’t audible at all. I upset him. This is my fault.
It’s all I can think now.
“Let me handle this, Richard,” Rose says under her breath, but her voice escalates with each syllable. “You can take a backseat.”
“Are you ill?” He touches her forehead, and she swats his hand away.
Rose glares a boiling glare and perches her hands on her hips. “That is the dumbest question you’ve asked me this week. I am standing right in front of you, perfectly healthy and coherent.”
“Then why else have you forgotten that your husband, me—”
“I know you’re my husband,” she growls.
“—never takes the metaphorical backseat in your metaphorical vehicle,” he finishes without pause. Without flinching either.
My eyes grow wide, stunned that I’m witnessing their rapid-fire back-and-forths up close and not on Princesses of Philly. I can’t remember where Lily first dubbed these moments “nerd star” flirt-fighting. Maybe in the reality show or on social media.
I can’t stop watching.
I’m hooked.
Maggie would love this. I almost retrieve my phone, but I know better than to film them and send the video to my friend. I keep my cell hidden in my backpack. Where it needs to stay.
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Rose spouts, heated whereas he’s calm and cool. “I just put you in the backseat, Richard. Stay. There.”
I forget that his middle name is actually Connor, and Richard is his real first name. Only Rose seems to constantly use it. Mostly as ammunition.
Connor grins. “The fact that you still believe you can order me around like a child is partially inane and partially amusing.”
“You’re fully aggravating—and stop grinning that way.” Rose covers his mouth with her hand and growls into an annoyed groan.
It looks like he’s grinning more, even beneath her palm.
She drops her hand. “Why can’t you just let me drive the vehicle?”
“I will, but I’m not going to be relegated to the backseat. I’m sitting next to you in every metaphorical scenario, darling.” He cups her cheek, and she lets him. Softly, he says a string of melodic-sounding French that I can’t even begin to translate.
Rose raises her chin, treaties in her yellow-green eyes, and she whispers French in reply. She touches his hand on her cheek, and Connor brings them down, lacing their fingers together.
Then they spin towards me.
“Uh…” I gulp, not prepared to be the center of attention when it comes to the nerd stars.
“You should sit,” Rose says coldly.
She’s not really ever sweet-natured. I can tell she’s not intending to be harsh when she approaches the Queen Anne chair and pats the cushion.
Rose is letting me sit in her chair? Lo and Ryke often tease her about that chair, but their words never dissuade her from taking a seat with crossed ankles.
Walking around furniture, I lower stiffly onto the regal chair, and then, nearly in unison, Rose and Connor sit on the adjacent couch. Rose looks a bit peeved by the synchronization, but she makes no mention of it.
Connor is staring through me. With his genius-level intellect, I question whether he can interpret my body language.
I hug my backpack on my lap and risk a glance at the kitchen door. No sound, no movement—nothing.
“Do you need anything?” Rose asks, making this less like an interrogation. “Coffee or a blanket?”
“No…thanks,” I say, still a little uneasy.
Rose nods, her posture like a wooden board. “I can’t sugarcoat anything, so if you can’t handle bluntness, then I advise you to cover your ears or wait for Connor to spell out everything in his nauseatingly smooth voice.”