"I couldn't help myself," she admits. Her brother stares at her for a minute, taking that in, and she flushes and looks at her feet. It's a terrible excuse and she knows it, but she has no other way of putting it. She doesn't even want to be having this conversation, so trying to formulate speech patterns to explain her actions is simply too difficult a task.
"That's not like you," he says finally. She bites her bottom lip and he coughs quietly, a sure sign he's uncomfortable. "Do you love him?"
"I think so," she replies. He inhales sharply and she raises her eyes, letting them go wide and guileless. "Yes," she corrects. "I love him."
The look on his face says he doesn't believe her and she wants to convince him, but she's not sure she believes it herself. They're sitting on the twin-sized bed she's had since she was eight. She can't remember him ever sitting on it and looking so serious in the nine years it's been her place of rest.
"How does he feel about you?" he asks. "Does he know?"
"Does he know what?"
"Any of it," he says. "Have you told him you think you might love him?"
"No," she admits. "It wasn't really about love, brother." He grunts and she sighs. "Nothing bad is going to happen. I'm on my period and he calls me his girlfriend in front of his macho-jock friends. We're good. It's okay."
"You're my baby sister."
"And that's exactly why you're not going to tell Mom," she says. He opens his mouth and she hastily finishes, "Or Dad. Am I right?"
He sighs and stares at her for a long, tense moment. Then he leans forward, kisses her on the forehead, and stands to leave. She hugs her knees to her chest and watches him go; when he pauses in the doorway and mutters, "Your secret's safe with me as long as you're safe about your secret," she feels like singing.