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“Fuck you.” Matias flicks me his middle finger.
“I mean—” she stops us from bantering “—Ari’s hair is darker and his jaw is wider, but your cheekbones are higher. Your nose is a little crooked too, Matias. I just think it’s easy to tell you two apart, that’s it.”
“It’s crooked cause he broke it when we were six.”
“You deserved it,” I grumble.
“How about both of you stop acting like you’re six and we can get this gunshot wound taken care of?”
Her hand slides up my shoulders, missing where my wound is, and slowly strips me of my ruined shirt. “You’re both broad, but where Ari is lean, you have more bulk,” she swallows, her fingertips dragging down my arms, tossing the shirt on the floor.
“You have a dimple in your chin,” she continues. “And Ari doesn’t.”
“Is that so?” Matias asks, which has her talking more.
I never want her to stop. Not many people can notice the slight differences between me and my twin. A person has to look very closely to notice those differences because they are slight.
“And Ari has a little silver around his temples.” It’s almost as if she’s in a trance or I know she wouldn’t typically be saying these things. I don’t move, I don’t even think I breathe because her fingers stroke my temples right where I’m starting to gray.
“Yeah, he is getting old, quick, right?” Matias says.
“Distinguished,” she corrects, our eyes meeting and something shifts between us, something monumental, I think.
She clears her throat and looks down on my shoulder. “I can clean up the surrounding area and it’s still bleeding but not as much as it was, so that’s good. I’m afraid I can’t help more than that. I have never stitched skin before.”
“It’s not so different from fixing a tear in a shirt,” Matias says.
Rosie gasps, horrified, and her expression is comical.
“He’s kidding.” I narrow my eyes at my brother. “Say you’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding,” he relents, then frowns. “I’m going to call the nurse to see what is taking so long. You need to think about hiring a doctor.”
“I know,” I sigh, wincing when Rosie presses a little too close to the wound.
“Sorry,” she whispers, sounding sad and guilty while she cleans the blood from my skin with easy, tender swipes.
“It’s okay, Tesoro. I can take the pain.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” She moves to my back, cleaning that exit wound.
“It comes with the job.” I lift my good shoulder.
“I need to go get a fresh towel. Keep this pressed until I get back. “
“Yes ma’am,” I say to her, watching her leave.
I groan, sagging against the counter to let out some of the pain I’ve been holding back.
“The nurse is here,” Matias shouts before opening the door.
I stand, but not to greet him or her. I walk to my liquor cabinet and grab a bottle of whiskey, then notice the red liquid dried on my wedding ring. With a gentle pull, I slide it off my finger and walk to the kitchen sink, laying it on the counter so I can wash it after the nurse leaves.
“Mr. Milazzo?” a soft feminine voice comes from behind me, grating my nerves for some reason.
I twist off the cap of the whiskey and take a long swig.
She sets a small bag down and pats the barstool. “Please, come sit so we can get this taken care of.”
