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Jemma still hasn’t answered any of my texts or phone calls. She hasn’t talked to Trent either. Neither of us has a shot with her anymore, our chances diminishing by the day. Our mutual interest in her has placed us at odds that we can’t overcome. I want her. So does Trent. This has never happened before, not even with girls we shared on purpose.
My brother won’t even look me in the eyes. I can’t stand the sight of him anyway. Every time I walk into our shared bedroom, he either leaves or rolls onto his side and pretends to sleep. I ignore him completely. We’ve never been mad at each other for more than a day or two. Neither of us is ready to let go of our anger over losing Jemma. And the longer this continues, the more we’re growing apart.
I head to my locker and start stripping off my equipment, dropping my gloves and jersey on the floor at my feet. Reaching into my locker, I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face. My head is throbbing, the pain digging into my skull. After another rough night at the Delta Sig house, I’m dehydrated and in desperate need of a nap.
I spin around to reach for my water bottle on the bench behind me, my elbow connecting with someone’s back.
“Yo, watch it,” Trent yells, and before I realize what’s happening, his hands slam hard into my chest.
I stagger backward, and then something inside me snaps. Closing the distance between us, I reach out for Trent, holding him against the locker, crushing his windpipe with my hand. An uncontrollable rage I don’t understand floods through my veins, shaking through me. I feel myself slowly losing my grasp, in danger of losing myself in the process.
For years, my identity has been somewhat tied to my brother, everyone mistaking us for the other. It was no different with Jemma, and that’s what kills me. We’ve shared everything, for as long as I can remember, and for once, I wanted something of my own. With Jemma, I felt something real, and that also scared me. Because I was afraid of losing her, not knowing she was also interested in my brother.
It hurts to lose to him. But both of us are losing right now. I channel my anger and frustration into pinning Trent against the locker. He attempts to swat my hand away, and I still can’t stop myself. The look of shock or fear in Trent’s eyes doesn’t snap me out of the moment. Instead, it has the opposite effect.
Now my teammates are pulling me off him. Preston holds one of my arms, Drake yanking on the other to steer me away from Trent.
“Did you lose your mind?” Drake asks me, but I can’t process anything. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
My teammates are gathered around us, staring at me with bewilderment in their eyes. Preston mutters something to me, a look of disappointment on his face. He always looks that way anymore. So do the rest of my friends, who have been pissed with me since my suspension.
What did I just do?
Trent is my brother, my twin, and the one person on earth who gets me. This never should have happened. We shouldn’t be fighting over a girl. And yet, I can’t shake how I feel. I still want to rip his head off for getting in the way.
Am I the one who got in the way? This situation doesn’t make sense to any of us. I have to face reality. We’re both losing the girl.
Twenty
Jemma
Every year, my parents invite their employees and their families for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s a Walcott tradition. My father always treats his workers as if they are a part of our family, makes sure they’re always welcome in our home. My father’s mentality is the reason for his success. Walcott Dairy runs like a well-oiled machine, even when he’s not around.
The one person I knew I’d see, but was hoping wouldn’t show, is Corey. My ex. The man I left behind to pursue what I thought was a better life, only to find out sometimes the grass is not always greener on the other side.
Our living room is packed to the brim with family and friends. My three older brothers—Mark, Connor, and Pat—take their usual places on the couch, right across from my father’s oversized chair, all of them watching football. A crowd of their friends and co-workers surround them, some standing, where others have found a place on the floor or leaning against the wall.
The scent of turkey wafts through the air, and I can hear my mother humming a tune from the kitchen. She does that when she cooks. Unlike Jordan and me, who are tone deaf, my mother has a beautiful singing voice.
