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My phone vibrates in my pocket and through some sort of sixth sense, I know it’s my twin calling.
Nic catches a glimpse of her picture flashing on my screen, and since she’s trying to video call me, he grabs his whiskey and stalks back into the house with a grumbledgood night. If she catches a glimpse of him after I swipe to accept the call, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Timothy, you shit-for-brains fucktoast!” she hisses. It’s sunny in Italy and she’s sitting outside. On a balcony, I think. A tear slips out before she hastily brushes it away. “How—how—dare you.”
“Hi womb-mate,” I chirp at her because it will piss her off. “Guess how many staples are in my scalp?”
Finding out about my accident via email from Mom’s assistant five minutes ago has not left my twin in a good mood. She makes me tell her everything that happened, everything the doctors said. I don’t want to, but I do because she’s my twin. My little sister.
Mom and Dad are in so much trouble with her. Possibly Amanda, too, since my older sister was Nic’s second call.
Nic’s dead to Jessie already, so ironically, he’s safe.
“I’m coming to LA,” Jessie announces, though she looks queasy at the thought. “You need someone to look after you.”
Like hell. The last thing I need is Jessie and Nic and their damn dramas while I’m trying to recover.
“I have a friend staying with me,” I tell her.
She snorts. “I know what kind of loser friends you keep.”
That’s a dig at Nic, not any of my other friends, who Jessie would like. I haven’t told her about Mina. Jessie gets a bit overprotective, and since Mina doesn’t love me, it would be a waste of energy to tell my twin about her.
“Nic’s living here, too,” I add. Since it’s not something the tabloids have picked up on, Jessie possibly doesn’t know. Both she and Nic keep their personal lives out of the family group chat, preferring to contribute memes (Jessie) or lurk (Nic).
She sips her coffee and makes a face. “Oh.”
“Coffee too bitter?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder, curious if I’ll find Nic hanging out in the kitchen or near the stairs, listening in.
Nope. He’s gone.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Jessie says in a small voice.
“I’m fine, J.” I don’t want to be living this—talking about it is intolerable. “How’s your vacation?”
“Hot.”
“Nah, can’t be that hot. I’m not there.”
She finally smiles, though it’s weak. “I see your ego has escaped unscathed.”
My ego is in tatters. I look ghastly on the screen, pool lights reflecting off my skin. Pretending isn’t working for me, but I don’t know what else to do. “Come on, look at me. I’m perfect. Sorry, I got all the good genetics.”
“Oh wow, you think you can still say that?” she says. “Did they even find a brain in that head of yours, or was it just three squirrels fighting over a Red Bull?”
I shrug. “Basically, but that’s better than the unicorns with dildo horns prancing around in your head.”
She laughs. “I love you, you gigantic…” she’s struggling for a word that isn’t prick or dick or asshole—I’ve given her shit about expanding her vocabulary—and I raise my eyebrows and wait.
“Meatball.” The euphemism clicks two seconds after she says it. She swears and bangs her elbow on her chair. She swears again, rubbing her elbow.
I laugh. “Dork.”
“Weenus! It’s the skin on your elbow! You’re a gigantic weenus!”
“What’s that?” I say loudly. “The connection’s shit. I have a big penis? That’s why you were so small at birth because I took up all the room in the womb with my gigantic schlong?”
