When George said I like it too, that old and familiar part of Luke felt oddly vindicated. Of course she'd like it too. How could she not like it?
But something about today made him softer, less likely to claim perfection. Or awesomeness.
And maybe this was different because in not feeling the need to prove himself to George -- at least not in the way he constantly felt when it came to other people -- he didn't have to prove anything to himself, either.
"B," he repeated, tracing the passage he'd copied with a finger. Something from The Island of the Day Before. He wasn't sure why he'd picked it, exactly. George had said something about favorites, and Luke was prone to being very particular about that kind of thing, but they changed so often. He could count on one hand the things that never changed. Maybe if they got more time with eachother, he could start counting George there too.
"'Fool, some say: you can speak of the infinity of God because you are not called upon to conceive it with your mind, but only to believe in it as one believes in a Mystery. But if you want to speak of natural philosophy, you must also conceive this infinite world, and you cannot....'"
Did he feel self-conscious? Okay. Yeah. A little. His eyes kept flitting to George over the top of the little notebook, and the Serious Reading tone he'd tried to adopt kept turning up at the edges, just like that unavoidable smile. I can't even look at her for five seconds without grinning like an idiot.