Page 40 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
“That’s great,” she says, a sweet, genuine smile on her face. “I didn’t know you knew each other that well.”
Finn squeezes my shoulder. “We’ve gotten to know each other a lot better recently,” he says. “And it just sort of happened.”
“Congratulations,” she says, and I can see it in her eyes that she means it, so I can breathe again. “Are you coming with her to Parents’ Weekend?”
And like that, I can’t breathe again. Of all the questions, why did she have to jump to—
“I’d be honored,” Finn says without pausing. “If you want me there. And if I can work out getting there. I don’t travel through the human world well, as you can imagine.”
“Oh, Jazzy’s a gargoyle, too,” she says, and I’m still reeling on how we got to this topic, so lost in my own head that I don’t even think to ask who Jazzyis. “I’ll ask her how her parents are traveling and get back to you.”
“Then I’ll be there,” Finn says, squeezing my shoulders again as he grins at Georgia. I somehow doubt that the entire town has seen as many smiles from him in the last five years as I’ve gotten out of him since we started this.
Georgia grins at us both. “I’m happy for you,” she says again. “I have class—I was on my way out when you called, but I can—”
“Go,” I say. “Don’t be late to class, G.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, Cee. I’m being responsible and everything.” She sits up, and I worry that’s it and she’s going to hang up, but she says, “Love you, Cee,” before disconnecting the call.
I sit there for a minute, stunned by how straightforward that was. “You okay?” Finn asks, voice low.
“That was easy.”
“It was,” he agrees. He tugs me lightly until I’m reclining entirely into his side. “Did you expect it to be hard?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had to have that conversation with her before.”
His fingers trace up and down my arm. “She wants you to be happy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He keeps trailing his fingers along my arm for a silent moment, then says, “You didn’t tell her about the marriage. Or the house.” He says it calmly, without any accusation, like he’s stating a fact. I tense up regardless.
“Yeah,” I agree cautiously.
“Why not?”
I squirm, pulling away from him. He lets me go. “Because it’s not her job to worry about that,” I say. “It’s her job to worry about getting to class on time and Jazzy and her roommate Stephie and whatever weird homework magic kids get. And crushes and parties and new friend groups and whether her new hair looks good and all the other things college kids do. It’s not her job to worry about me.”
“Okay,” he agrees, and despite the fact that there’s no judgment in his tone, I’m sensing abutcoming. Sure enough, he continues, saying, “But look how happy she was when you told her about us. Don’t you think she’d want to know about what’s going on with you, even if she can’t help? Just to know?”
I exhale a long, slow breath, trying to gather my thoughts. I don’t want to snap at him, but I need him to understand this. “You know I didn’t meet G until the funeral? Like, at all?”
“No,” he says slowly, clearly having no idea why we’re talking about this, but being willing to indulge me regardless. “Your dad never introduced you?”
“Dad would meet me at places on the west coast, once or twice a year. He’d come to me and we’d take a little vacation. He’d take me skiing or to Disneyland or the beach. I was never invited back here. So no, I didn’t meet her.” I can still picture that little girl. We have the same brown hair and our father’s brown eyes. I got the freckles from my mom and she got the button nose from hers. But on that day, it’d been like looking at a younger version of myself. Her hair was in two pigtails and she was in a black dress that didn’t fit, with an expression of abject confusion on her face. She understood death conceptually, but was having trouble applying it to what her parents were.Dead.Gone. She’d been so lost.
So I’d told the little girl they weren’t coming home, and that I’d stay with her. And I’d weathered the tantrums and grief and acting out while figuring out the whole parenting thing on the fly.
“She calls me Cee,” I tell him without explaining my thinking. “People called me CeeCee when I was a kid, but I put a stop to that in middle school, and it’s been full name ever since. But she liked that she was G and I was Cee, and I liked anything that connected us, so I put up with it until I liked it, too. Anyway, she’s not that little girl anymore. But she still is, and it’s still my responsibility to make sure she’s okay. And I don’t knowwhat she’ll do after college. But whether she comes back here the day she graduates or ten years after, or thirty, I don’t want her to know that her neighbors looked at her Cee and decided she wasn’t worthy of staying here. This is her home, and I won’t ruin it for her.”
“So, if they did kick you out of town, you were… what, never going to tell her?” he asks, incredulous.
Truthfully, I haven’t thought that far ahead, but it does seem like the best option. “Sure. Tell her I’m human and I went to live with humans. She could come visit me whenever she wanted. Sounds like the best way to protect her.”
Finn’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline at this point, but he keeps his opinions to himself. Good. I might not be a perfect guardian, but I’m not here to take judgement from someone who’s never done it.
He hesitantly wraps an arm back around me, and I don’t protest, leaning against him again. He makes a pretty good pillow. “You’re a good sister,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’ve been everything she needed. You’ve done your best by her, and she knows it. It shows in how much she adores you.”
