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“If you gave me back those years, I’d do it all better.”
Time Won’t Let Me Go, The Bravery
Asher
I screwed up. That’s all that was going through my mind since I woke up. I spent the entire night alone in the lit confines of my room. The weight of our interaction hung in the air like a morbid cloud. As I replayed it in my mind, I couldn’t help but think I’d made a colossal mistake. It may have cost me more than my friendship with Sawyer. I was impulsive, driven by a surge of emotion. One look from her and I melted.
I tried to convince myself that it was a fleeting moment of passion, that I was using her to get one up on my brother, but that was not the case. I love her. I love my brother’s girlfriend. Loving her was as unconscious an action as breathing.
There was a pang in my heart as I heard the muffled sounds of their voices coming from Josh’s bedroom. It was a blatant reminder of the rift I caused, mine and Sawyer’s relationship fracturing by the second. I couldn’t bear it any longer.
With quiet determination, I exited my bedroom. My footsteps were soft against the polished floorboards as I strutted to the front door. I stepped out into the cool night air. The darkness enveloped me like a cloak of solitude.
The moon cast its sheen of light over the quiet neighbourhood. I stood outside Sawyer’s bedroom. The plan going through my mind was daring, but I wouldn’t be Asher Hart if I didn’t take the risk. For the second time in less than forty-eight hours, I unlatched her window and slipped inside. My heart raced with adrenaline as I spotted her painting sitting on display on the easel. Without hesitation, I lifted it and cradled it in my arms like a newborn. I climbed out the window with determination.
I slipped back into the night with the painting tucked under my arm and jogged to my truck. The risks were running through my mind, especially potential jail time, but it would be worth it.
I stopped my truck in the parking lot of the local gallery. My heart hammered against my ribcage. As I surveyed my surroundings in search of security, the night fell into silent anticipation. My heartbeat echoed in my ears. As if fate would have it, someone had left one window ajar. With a swift motion, I pried the window open and slipped inside.
The air was cool and musty, as well as the aroma of drying paint. I glanced around and followed the sign exhibit. A dimly lit glow bathed the hall, and I approached the first painting I could find. I took it off the wall, signalling a heavy blare. The deafening alarm reverberated through the gallery. I placed it to the side and hung Sawyer’s painting, hiding the other in a dark corner. There was no time to admire my handiwork as I bolted for the window, shimmying out of it, only to end up face-to-face with a security guard. The glow of his flashlight silhouetted his stern face.
“A little late to look at art, don’t you think?” He asked. “What’s your name?”
My mind raced for an answer.
“Joshua.” I said, trying to maintain composure.
“Joshua who?”
“Joshua Hart.”
The security guard eyed me, looking at my empty hands. He searched for any trace of deception. The air was suffocating.
“I need to call this in.” The moment he moved his gaze away, I bolted.
I ignored his calls and slipped into my truck, not wasting a moment in starting the ignition. The tires screeched as I kicked it into drive. As I slipped into the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the pit of my stomach. I’m in so much trouble.
??
I would panic every time someone knocked on the door, fearing that the police were there waiting to dangle their handcuffs in my face and take me away. My fears came true three days later.
I was in the kitchen when my mother called for me. A cop and an unfamiliar, lanky guy stood in the doorway. He wore a well-tailored suit with classic patterns. He stood in the doorway with a poised and confident posture, but there was an underlying tension in his face.
“Asher,” my mom said. “Why am I being told your brother snuck into an art gallery the night he was home?”
I placed a puzzled expression on my face.
“Maybe he’s acting out?”
The officer cleared his throat. We turned our attention to him.
“This isn’t Joshua Hart?” He questioned.
“This is his twin brother, Asher.”
The officer folded his arms over his chest.
“He fits the description.”
