Page 45 of My Twin Sister

There are tears in Tara’s widened eyes. She wipes at them and steps backward. “I have to go,” she says.

Tara bolts for the front door, leaving her cooler behind. The guys rush in through the back door, probably having heard the commotion.

“What’s going on?” Murphy asks, looking around for clues and landing on my bleeding nose.

“Tara is a damned psycho is what’s going on,” Geny says. “I walked in and she punched Grace in the face and then ran off.”

“What?” Wyatt says. “Are you okay?”

I pinch my nose. “I’m fine,” I say nasally. “I could use a paper towel or something though.”

Murphy springs into action and hands me a wad of napkins.

Twenty-Eight: Geny

Grace insists on going back out to the fire, tissues stuck up both nostrils like a post-fight boxer. The three of us keep looking at her, waiting for an explanation I’m sure we won’t get. Grace digs into Tara’s abandoned cooler and cracks open a can.

Murphy laughs. “I guess it’s the least she owes you.”

“The very least,” she says and takes a long drink.

This isn’t at all the night I thought it’d be. But of course it isn’t. It never is. But it’s not over yet, so I grab another drink. Instead of returning to my own stump, I sit on Wyatt’s lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. I tell myself I’m imagining his stiffness and hesitation. He eventually moves his arm around my waist and butterflies flit around my insides.

Grace and Murphy are laughing about something I can’t hear over the music. I glance down at Wyatt to see he’s watching them too. I’d do anything to know what he’s thinking. But then, I probably don’t want to know.

“I’ve literally never punched anyone,” Grace says, louder than the music now.

“Not even once? You telling me you and your sister never got into fist fights?” Murphy looks over at me.

Grace balks. “No! We aren’t barbarian men.”

I laugh. Our fights were always psychological. Sometimes verbal.

“Don’t let her lie to you, Murph. She punched me more than a few times,” Wyatt says.

My stomach clenches. Grace spins toward him, losing her footing but only slightly. She points a finger at him. “That doesn’t count!” she says.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because they weren’t serious,” she says. “They were play punches.”

“A punch is a punch.”

Murphy stands up. “Okay,” he says and holds his palms up. “Give me your best punch.”

Grace sets her drink down and staggers to her feet, holding her fists up like she knows what she’s doing.

“Ready?” she asks.

Murphy nods. He claps his hands and holds them up to her again. Grace punches with her right hand and it lands in Murphy’s. He looks surprised and shakes out his hand.

“Okay, I call bullshit on you never having punched someone seriously,” he says.

Grace giggles, hopping on her toes. “I never said I didn’t know how to punch. I just said I’ve never punched anyone. And I haven’t. Only punching bags.”

My eyes widen, but she isn’t looking at me. Murphy laughs.

“You liar!” he says, lunging for her.