Were any of those men one she should hope to make a future with?

Ivy hummed out an agreement that sounded dreamy where Lily’s would have sounded tormented. “Yes. Sometimes you do. Even so—this part is so delicious. Why would I want to rush it? Every moment I’m wondering if he’s going to find a way to kiss me. And to be quite honest, I wonder if the anticipation is even better than a kiss could possibly be.”

Sweet Ivy. Lily leaned back against the other wall in her corner. “I certainly hope not. If you marry, you’ll not have to wonder anymore if he’s going to kiss you, but I should hope you’ll enjoy it when he does.”

Another laugh. Then the sound of a finger tapping on the wall. Saying, as she’d said so many times in just that way, What about you? “Do you think about it? With your Russian?” Walls did nothing to filter the teasing out of her sister’s voice either.

Lily pursed her lips. “Maybe.” She drew the word out into three syllables. She’d tried to imagine what it would be like. How she would feel. And yes, whether she could imagine looking into his chocolate-drop eyes every day, forever.

But somehow . . . somehow her every imagining always stopped with him a foot away. That was where it always seemed he was. Not physically, but in a way even more real. Whatever secrets he held tight, they kept him distant.

No. Not just his. If he stayed always a foot away, only six inches of it were his fault. The other six were her secrets.

“Lil?”

“Hmm?” She stirred, wondering what teasing or question she had missed.

Enough, apparently, to signal to her sister that the wall must go. A moment later her door creaked open and Ivy slipped inside. They had no reason to sneak about these days, but she still closed the door with nary a sound and padded over to her as if they were breaking curfew by talking when they ought to be in bed—a nightly occurrence ten years ago.

Lily held up the blanket so that Ivy could snuggle into the spot beside her.

“So.” A word she drew out even more than Lily had her maybe. “What is it? With your Russian?”

Lily sighed. “It’s that, I suppose. He doesn’t feel like my anything.” When she saw the lift of her sister’s brow, she added, “All right, that’s not true. He’s my friend. But that doesn’t make him mine. Not in the way that Clarke is—and clearly wants to be—yours.”

Ivy’s head came to rest against Lily’s shoulder. “Do you want him to be?”