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I sit beside her, feeling heavy.
“Look at this.” My eyes shut as I pass her the leaflet from inside the case. “Find my name,” I groan. I don’t mean to, but I can’t keep the pain out of my voice.
“I see you—right here. Kellan Drake.”
“Now look below it,” I rasp.
“Lyon Drake? I’m confused.” Cleo pauses, and I hear the TV start to play. “Number thirty-three, the program says.”
“His number?” I lift my head out of my hands as my eyelids try to shut. Yes, Lyon was thirty-three.
I nod, and she watches the screen. Lyon lines up in his tight-end position, and my chest fills up with nails.
“That’s your brother?” she asks.
I nod.
“Is he younger or older than you?” she asks gently.
“Twins,” I murmur. The word feels foreign on my tongue.
“Did something happen to him?”
I swallow, even though my throat is dry. I bury my head in both my hands. “He died.”
I watch the phantom Kellan on the screen. It’s strange because he has blond hair, like the Kellan sitting with me on the couch, so as he circles around my dark-haired Kellan with a giant cooler, my senses tell me that he’s Kellan. He’s got the same beautiful body, the same gorgeous blue eyes. But when he laughs, his face is different. He has dimples when he smiles, and Kellan only gets them when he frowns.
My dark Kellan darts away and starts to circle blond-haired Lyon. Lyon whirls around with him. When Kellan feints, his brother seems to know. He dumps the cooler full of ice in the exact right spot to drench Kellan.
Kellan jolts out from under the icy water and tackles his brother. Behind them, fans are filing out of the stadium. Other players join in, and as the brothers brawl on the football field, someone brings another cooler and dumps it on them both.
“Fuck you!” Kellan roars.
Lyon is laughing—laughing with his blond head thrown back. Laughing like a Kellan angel.
I can see where Kellan gets his darkness. It’s the balance to his brother’s light.
Someone starts to throw ice cubes, and the twins disappear into a mass of jerseys. I hear one final whoot from one of them, but it’s impossible to discern which. My Kellan was younger, freer, despite his black hair. As if in answer, Lyon flits in front of the screen, smiling gloriously for the camera.
He shakes his wet head, sending drops of water flying at the lens.
“And that’s all we have tonight, from Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Keep it cool, and we’ll see you next week,” the announcer says as the camera pans out.
I shift my gaze to Kellan. He’s just staring. I can see no feeling on his face.
“When did it happen?” I whisper.
“September 18. 2011.”
I nod slowly. “That date is coming up.” I look at his hands, sitting listless in his lap, and I wonder about his fight at the bar. It was January 2011—just a few months after this game was filmed. Was his brother there that night? I didn’t read anything about his brother in the papers. Was Lyon as talented as Kellan? Were they both untamed boys, privileged athletes living outside the lines? Were they using drugs?
“It must be on your mind.”
I touch his thigh with just my fingertips, even though it makes me nervous—the act of reaching out and touching him when he’s in so much pain. I don’t want to hurt him more. Instead, he doesn’t move at all. His body is like a statue. After a moment, he leans his head against the back of the couch.
He closes his eyes, and I stare down at my helpless hand on his jeans. My heart pounds with the need to comfort him somehow, but my mind is painfully blank. I feel a burst of panic as I watch the even rise-fall of his chest. I hope he didn’t fall asleep. Not before I get a chance to comfort him.
“I’m sorry,” he says raggedly. ?
