Which only makes my head hurt worse. Because Tink’s like that. Like, I guess we do all spend a lot of time in the sun, but Tink’s the kind of guy who’ddosomething about it. Think ahead. Like, since he moved in, we’ve never run out of toilet paper, you know? Not once.
Point is, he’s just not the kind of guy who starts shit. Or gets shit started with him.
And yet…and yet this churning in my stomach makes me feel like I might have.
LikeDrunk Foxmight have.
I stir my Cheerios, trying to think, wondering if maybe I should justask, when?—
“Ugh.”
Pan heaves himself into the kitchen. No shirt, hair all messed up, eyes bleary. I give him a half-hearted salute, and Tink pauses, just steps away from the back door.
“You gonna live?” he asks Pan.
Pan just groans dramatically and takes the other side of the island. “What year is it?” Seeing my ex-pizza, he scowls. “The hell is that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, but Pan ignores me, too busy leaning over the island to scootch the colorful cardboard takeout box in front of him. He flips it open and pumps a fist.
“Jackpot,” he croaks, pulling out a foil-wrapped lump that he eagerly peels open.
“Did those sit out overnight?” comes another voice.
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Kit. But I do anyway. My twin isalsoactually dressed, flannel over T-shirt and jeans. His hair’s combed, mine isn’t. His glasses are on, I…don’t wear any.
He’s little. I’m big.
Identical? You don’t even look alike.
Don’t remind me.
Pan lifts his head just enough to scowl at the burrito. He stops chewing. Then starts again. “S’fine,” he mutters. “Let me live.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to.” Kit grabs an orange from the plastic bag on the counter and starts shucking it. “That shit doesnotkeep as long as you think it does.”
“M’fine,” Pan says, stuffing like half the burrito in his mouth. Like a boa constrictor with a mouse. “I’ve got—whatever it is. One of those things. Stone…steel…” He glances at Tink. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
“Iron constitution?” Tink’s still at the back door, like he isn’t sure if he should stay or go.
Tink. Another little wiggle of guilt in my gut.What the fuck did I do last night?I spoon up some more cereal, but now it’s gone legit sludgey, so I put it back down. And when I do, Kit catches my eye. One eyebrow raised.
“That’s the one.” Pan nods and spins a hand in the air. “Hey, can you grab me a?—”
Tink pauses a split second, then nods and swings open the fridge.
I shake my head at Kit as Tink drops a can in front of Pan.I’m fine.
I don’t know if twin telepathy is real, exactly, but I do know that Kit and I can basically…talk without talking. Somehow. Comes in handy, sometimes.
Other times, it’s just annoying.
Kit snorts.Bullshit you are.He pushes his glasses up his nose, pushes his sleeves up his arms, like he’s about to snap on some gloves and start inspecting my skin for the best place to draw.What is it?
Nothing. Seriously.
Kit’s expression tells me he doesn’t believe me.
“…not actuallywinningthat random drawing every week,” Tink is saying. “You know that, right? That poor El Zocalo counter girl just gives you the burrito box so she has an excuse to talk to you.”
