"Yes, you are. God, we're going to die before we even get there."
"Don't be so dramatic. We're literally right outside of the town," I say back, attempting to shift the car ever so slightly to the right.
A truck passes us and I wind up shifting more to the left, which has Birdie gripping on to the door handle and pretending like she can hit the brake from the passenger seat.
"Shit," I hiss out, as we hit a large bump, too large of a bump. One that makes the car shake. It's hard to hold the steering wheel straight as the car makes a wretched noise and a warning sign flashes on the dash.
There's a flat tire. Fuck.
I try to drive a little further, but with the noise the rental car is making, that’s a terrible choice. I pull over to the side of the road and put the emergency lights on.
I just sit there a long moment, staring at the steering wheel and neither of us says a word.
Internally, I'm so frustrated with my mom. There was no way out of this trip, not when it was the last thing she asked of me, and not when Birdie had begged me to come.
My twin and I grew apart the older we got. When we were little, we were inseparable, no matter how different we were. Birdie was into crafts and chasing Alphas and I was hyperfocused on school. It was important to me that I got a high-paying job—It was even more important that I proved I could do anything as an Omega. I don't need a pack; I didn't need anyone but myself to get where I am today and I don’t see that changing.
Yet, there's still this longing of things being the way they used to be between us when life was simpler and I could confide anything to Birdie.
It feels like we're worlds apart and I don't know how to fix it. I’ve isolated myself, burying myself in work. I’m not even sure where to start with repairing our fractured relationship.
I blow an unruly piece of hair out of my face and glance over at Birdie and meet her gaze. Her eyes are the same exact shade of green as mine, the same our mother had. When we were little we looked a lot more like twins, but as we’ve grown our differences are more stark. Her warm brown waves frame her face while my unmanageable dark blonde curls are pinned to the back of my head. Can hair be a personality indicator? Beyond that, Birdie is busty, confident, and outgoing with other people while I’m slight, neurotic, and do my best to avoid small talk.
No matter our differences, we’re still twins. She’s my sister and I’m not going to lose my shit right now. That’s the last thing we need, plus the situation is my fault, not hers.
"Do you know how to change a tire?" I ask her.
"I was hoping you would." She grimaces.
We both get out of the car. We're stranded in the most picturesque place I could imagine, rolling green hills on the sides of us, not a single building in sight. If we weren't in this shitty situation, I'd pause a moment and take in how absolutely stunning it is, but we have more pressing matters at hand.
I grab my phone, ready to call some sort of tow service and realize I don't have a single bar of service. The flashing SOS status on my phone taunts me and I groan.
"We're fucked," I say, kicking at the flat tire and regretting it immediately. "The town is eight kilometers away. Worst case, we walk?"
I glance over at my sister, and she's just blissfully taking in the view, not even phased by our current situation. Birdie lives in the now. She's not the type to make plans or worry about what the next day holds. I envy her for it. I wish I could let go more, not constantly worrying and stressing about the future.
I take a deep breath, calming my nerves and attempting to keep the panic at bay. What if we’re out here all night? What if we have to walk all the way to town? There are a million what ifsrolling in my head. I just want to get to the bed-and-breakfast, take a shower, and sleep for the next ten hours.
"Look, a van is headed this way," Birdie says and I round the vehicle, waving my hands like a lunatic, hoping that whoever is driving takes pity on us and helps us change the tire.
Thankfully, the white van slows down.Lain's Highland Toursis written in dark green script on the side, which leaves me with hope that we aren't about to get murdered and buried out here in the mountains where no one will ever find us. I can picture the murder podcasts about vanishing twins in the Highlands so easily in my head, oh God, what if they call it the Twin Peak Murders? I can’t go out like that.
Fortunately, it appears his van is full of witnesses—thank goodness.
I expect an old Scottish man with a weathered face and a thick accent to step off the bus. Instead, I'm graced with a massive man, undoubtedly an Alpha, considering his size. He’s wearing a dark red kilt and a green sweater. His size is imposing. I barely reach his chest as he approaches.
My nerves are put at ease as a long-haired dog with white and gray fur trails behind him. Surely a serial killer wouldn’t have a dog.
The large hound shoves its nose in my crotch and I let out a squeak as I do my best to move the dog’s snout.
"I’m so sorry. Fergus here isn’t usually this forward,” he says, pulling the dog’s collar. “You lassies in need of some help?” His accent is thick and rich as he runs a hand through his dirty blonde hair.
"Uh. Yes. We have a flat tire," I say, leading him around the vehicle and pointing to the tire in question.
He lets his dog go, and I watch him trot over to the grass, where he lifts his leg and relieves himself.
I can hear laughing from the van, a few people holding up their phones and recording the encounter.
