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Bo whispered, “It’s probably a good thing that parts of last night are a total blank.”
“Yeah,” Chelsea agreed.
“Don’t tell me that you two have forgotten everything.” Jules picked up his spoon and continued eating. “You have to remember the threesome. Making it with hot twins has always been a personal fantasy of mine.” He looked up and grinned. “One that, I think it’s safe to say, I share with most men on the planet. I gave you girls some of my best moves, and I’ll be crushed if neither of you remember it.”
Bo rested her forehead in her hand. “Don’t make me kill you, Jules,” she said through a tortured sigh. “Not today. I’m just not in the mood to clean up the mess.”
After
Jules left, the girls moved to the couch and settled in for a little R&R. Recuperation and reality television. A small cooler filled with Coke sat on the coffee table, and they kicked up their feet and tuned in to the brain rot that was New York Goes to Work.
Chelsea pointed at the reality star who’d made her first appearance on Flavor of Love. “She used to have such a cute body, but she ruined it with those big stripper implants.”
Bo nodded. “Sister Patterson should have smacked her upside the head. Why would any woman do that to themselves?”
It was a rhetorical question. “I can completely understand reduction though.” Chelsea decided to test the waters and see if her sister’s opinion had changed. “Boobs get in the way of everything.”
“Yeah, but have you seen the way they do the reduction?” Bo asked as New York shoveled pig manure. “It’s a form of mutilation.”
Chelsea guessed that answered the question. “It doesn’t look that bad. Not like it used to. The scar isn’t even very big.”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about that again? They carve out huge chunks of your flesh. Like a pumpki S Lin.”
Bo sounded just like their mother. There was no talking to her about it, so she let it go.
“Remember when we sent in an audition tape for The Real World?”
Chelsea laughed. They’d been nineteen and learned the MTV reality show was going to be shot in Hawaii. They’d wanted to go in the worst way. “Yeah. We thought for sure they’d pick us because we’re twins.”
“We were so sure we’d get chosen, we started picking out swimsuits.”
“I was going to be the bad twin that flirted with the male cast members and you were going to be the one to lecture me about saving myself for marriage.” Believing they’d needed a hook to make themselves memorable to the casting directors, they’d played up the whole good-twin, bad-twin scenario on their submission tape. Bo had pulled her hair back and put on a pair of fake glasses to look the part, while Chelsea had dyed her hair purple and borrowed a friend’s leather biker jacket. On the outside it might appear as if they were still playing those roles, but Chelsea wasn’t playing at anything. She was just being herself. Chelsea Ross. Twin sister and loving daughter. Actress and assistant to a hockey superstar with a terminal case of bad mood-itis. As she watched New York artificially inseminate a pig, she wondered what her life would look like in a year. Hangovers always tended to make her kind of moody and introspective about her life.
In a year, she’d be living in L.A., going to auditions again. She’d be chasing her dream, but she wanted to do things a little differently this time so she didn’t get burned out. She didn’t want to work as an assistant to the stars anymore.
Maybe she’d start an event-planning business. Hire her own assistant to boss around. Not that she’d be mean or unreasonable. She knew what that was like. She’d worked with a lot of event planners in the past, and she liked to arrange and organize fun things. She was good at it, and she generally liked to be around people. That sort of enterprise wouldn’t take a lot of startup money, and hopefully she’d have more free time to go to auditions.
And by this time next year, she’d like to have a man in her life. A nice man with a hard body. An image of Mark Bressler popped into her head. No, a nice man.
Bo’s brain must have been on the same wavelength. Something that didn’t surprise Chelsea. “Do you ever wonder if we’ll find someone?” her twin asked.
“We will.”
“How can you be sure?”
Chelsea thought about it and said, “Because, if women on My Big Fat Redneck Wedding can find men, then we can too.”
A look of horror entered Bo’s blue eyes. “Those men pig wrestle, eat roadkill, and wear camouflage 24/7.”
Chelsea waved away her sister’s concern. “I think it’s fairly safe to say that neither of us will get married under a beer can arbor to a camo-wearing redneck yelling, ‘Git ’er done.’ We do have some standards.”
Bo bit the side of her lip. “You flirted with some guy in Sth a git-’er-done trucker’s hat last night.”
“That wasn’t flirting, and he wasn’t a redneck.” She knew because she’d checked out his teeth. None of them had been stained or missing. He’d just been some guy trying to be tragically hip. “And I didn’t make out with him like you did with Jules.”
“I’d never make out with Jules,” Bo said, and turned her attention to the television. “Look. New York is roping a goat.”
“Oh no. Don’t try and distract me. I saw you.”
