by J. A. Huss
“Ah.” I laugh. So this is where we’re going.
“She woke up that day and said, ‘I’m Missy.’ And I of course said, ‘No, I’m Missy.’ But she insisted and insisted. She walked out to breakfast and told our dad that Melanie was lying and pretending to be Missy.”
“What did you say?” I am caught up in that scene because I can totally picture it. Like one hundred percent of it. I can picture their room the way it looked when they were six. Pink bunk beds, two white desks, pictures of horses and kittens on the walls.
“I tried to tell him, but he really didn’t care. And Mel winked at me. This stupid exaggerated wink that a six-year-old thinks is so sly. So I figured it was a joke, right?” She stops talking and when I glance over she’s looking straight at me, like she’s waiting for an answer.
I say nothing.
“It was a harmless joke. ‘That’s what twins do,’ she said as we walked into school. ‘They fool the adults. Let’s fool the adults today. You be me and I’ll be you.’”
“So you went along.”
I catch her reflection nodding in the windshield.
“And no one could tell you apart?”
“She had me down, Rock—”
“Don’t call me Rock. I’m fucking RK to you. Don’t call me Rock.”
I glance over at Missy as she pulls back a little. Like my request is ridiculous. “OK,” she says. And then she lets that go and continues. “It’s like she was studying me. She knew all my little mannerisms. The way I tilted my head when I was thinking. The way I chewed on my cheek and bit my lip when I was conflicted. The way I stayed quiet when she would get loud. She was practicing, RK. She was practicing.”
Missy stops for a few moments as I deal with a particularly hairy part of the drive. It’s a series of switchbacks and ninety-degree turns that wind up the mountain. I can tell the edge of the cliff makes her nervous. Hell, it makes me nervous. I have not missed the mountain roads while I’ve been away, I can say that for sure.
My dad used to make fun of me when I was little and got nervous when we drove in the mountains. One time he said, “You know why they put that guardrail on the side of the road, RK?”
And I said, “To keep people safe.”
He laughed. Like a really big guffaw. “No,” he explained, like this was a fact of life I needed to learn. “No. They don’t put them there to keep people safe. They put them there to make people feel safe. There’s a big difference, RK. If you hit that guard rail you’re going off the side of the mountain, son. It’s over. They don’t keep you safe, they only make you feel safe.”
It was a conversation I never forgot and I couldn’t have been more than eight. It was the first harsh reality I ever had to face in my life.
You’re never safe.
I shrug that memory off and go back to thinking about my current drive, and once we clear the switchbacks and are making a not-so-serious descent, Missy resumes. “I didn’t think much about it back then because it was only every once in a while, you know? Did you ever hear of that phrase ‘boil the frog?’”
“Sure. You put a frog in cold water and turn up the heat. The temperature increases so slowly that the frog doesn’t notice that it’s getting hotter and hotter until it’s too late. The water is boiling and the frog is dead.”
“Well, looking back, that’s how I felt, RK. Melanie was practicing to be me because one day she was going to turn into me. And I’d never notice because she put me in a pot of cold water and turned up the heat.”
Just the thought sends a shiver up my spine. “How many times did she do it?’
“Oh,” Missy says, like she’s considering my question. “A few times that year, for sure. At least three.”
“And no one noticed?”
“Did you notice?”
“I was six too.”
“But you never noticed?”
“Not until later. I mean, obviously I had my own issues with her delusions. She tricked me a lot, Missy. But if you’re saying she made a habit of it all growing up, then yeah, she probably got me more than I realized.”
“She did,” Missy spits. “She did, RK. And I caught her so many times. And you know what?” Her voice is loud now, like she’s angry as fuck. “It pissed me off to no end that you didn’t know. I’d get so angry at you for not being able to tell. It was like you didn’t even know me.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know, Melissa? You two are fucking identical. You share the same DNA. You have the same voice, the same hair color, eyes, skin, body. All of it was identical.”
“Not identical, RK. Because we are not the same person.”
“No? Well, then you’re right, I guess. I didn’t notice.”
She huffs out some air and chews on that for a few seconds. “Not identical. She was sick and I was not. She was mean and I was nice. She was devious and I was honest. So no, RK, we were not identical. Not even close.”
I shake my head in disgust. “Is that all you have to say then? Not identical? I should’ve known better and the fact that I didn’t catch on early enough, or often enough, is grounds for lying about who and what you were to me? I fucking loved you, Melissa. Loved. You. Not her, you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying at first I thought it was funny. I thought tricking people was funny. A joke we were playing. But as we got older I caught her doing it all the time. When we’d go shopping she purposefully chose outfits that I’d never wear. Outfits that said Melanie. She’d do her makeup different. She’d style her hair different. She’d even talk different. But then I’d catch her wearing my clothes, using my makeup, styling her hair the way I did mine. Talking like me, acting like me… being me, RK.” She sighs, like she’s trying to calm herself down. “But the main point of that is that she didn’t tell me first like she did when we were six. She just morphed into Melissa and left Melanie behind.”
“Is that why you cut your hair in high school?” I remember that day, actually. I loved Missy’s long hair. It always smelled so fucking good. And then one day it was short.
“Yeah, I even did it myself. But she cried and cried to my dad until he took us both to the salon. They said my hair was choppy and needed to be fixed. And while we were there Melanie got hers cut the same way. People saw us as the twins. They never knew we were so different.”
“How could your dad not know?”
“I don’t know,” Missy says. I can hear the stress in her voice. Like this hurts her the same way me not knowing did. “How could he not know?”
“Maybe he did know?” I’m sorta thinking out loud now, getting caught up in her story.
“Yeah, I thought that too. He knew, RK. I think he knew she was sick and didn’t want to admit it was serious. So he ignored the whole thing. It’s a joke, he probably thought. It’s a phase all twins go through, he was probably told. But it wasn’t a joke. Not to me. I lost myself to her, RK. And that day I was supposed to go to prom with you, Melanie caught me talking on the phone to Gretchen that morning. I was talking about you. How I was afraid that you’d ask me to go away to Juilliard with you and then make me return to this town after you were done. I was afraid you’d crush me, RK. Steal my dreams and I’d end up being nothing but RK’s little wife. And it wasn’t like that would be so bad. One day. But right out of high school?” She shakes her head and hesitates. “I just didn’t know. I just maybe wanted to be…”
“A rock star,” I finish for her. “You wanted the life I have now. Don’t you love that fucking irony?” She says nothing. “Then what happened?” I prod her to continue.
“I hung up with Gretchen and Mel was there as soon as I ended the call. And she said she wanted to go to prom with you.”
“What’d you say?” I feel the anger building in me. “‘Sure, he’s all yours? I don’t want him anyway?’”
“No,” Missy says, her own anger building. “Of course not. I said fuck no. I might not’ve wanted all the things you were offering me right then, but I loved
you, RK. I loved you back.”
“So how the fuck did she end up in your dress, in my car, as my date?”
“She locked me in the basement bathroom, RK. My dad was gone that evening. Some show down in Denver, remember? Your dad went too. She punched me in the face, knocked me back so hard, I hit my head on the counter and passed out. When I came to the door was locked. I screamed until my voice was gone, RK. I screamed. But who was going to hear me? I was afraid of her. She was truly messing with my life. She applied to colleges using my name. I think she was going to kill me and then pretend she was me.”
I run that scenario through my head for a long time. A long fucking time. Missy keeps talking...
“Melanie was jealous of us, RK. She got asked to the prom. It wasn’t like she didn’t get asked, you know? Jason Cartney and Mike Grenshaw both asked her to prom and she said no. You why she said no?”
I look over at Missy and shrug. I’m lost.
“So no one would notice when Melanie didn’t show up at prom. She planned that night, RK. Very thoroughly. Every bit of it was planned ahead of time. She’s the one who told our dad he should play that show in Denver that night. She’s the reason he was gone. The reason your dad was gone. The reason why no one could hear me screaming for help.”
I have to admit; it sounds like something Melanie would do.
“Why do I have to have the crazy twin sister? Why? All my life people have told me how lucky I am to be an identical twin. Do I look lucky to you, RK?”
I glance over at her, see the tears, and look back to the road. What am I supposed to say to all this?
“Why did she hate me? You asked me that earlier. Why did I hate you? I never hated you. I never even hated Melanie. She hated us, RK. She hated us because we were in love. So she became me. That’s what happened.”
I look straight ahead and sigh as we pass through Estes Park and make the final leg of the drive back to Grand Lake. It takes a few more minutes to work up the nerve to finally ask what’s on my mind.
“What if…” I say, looking over at Missy through the corner of my eye. “What if she really did that? What if that was Missy out on that mountain and she did die? And you’re really Melanie trying to convince me that you’re Missy?”
Missy starts crying. Softly, but sobs all the same. She says nothing until we’re almost home and she starts trying to pull herself together, probably thinking Gretchen and TJ will see how upset she is if they follow us all the way back to the house.
“Who are you?” I ask as I pull the truck into the garage and close it up behind us. “Look at me, Melissa. Who are you? Just say it and I’ll believe you, OK? If you say Missy, I’ll believe you and we’ll stop talking about this. Because I don’t like it any more than you do. I feel used, I feel lied to, I feel dirty, man. Dirty. So you have one chance to tell me who you are and that’s who you’re going to stay.”
Her tears start rolling again. Long streams down her face. “I’m Melissa, RK. I swear on everything. I am Melissa. It just hurts me so bad that you’d fall for it. It hurts. She stole everything from me that night. Everything.”
I let out a long breath of air and sit in the dark quiet of the garage.
“Do you want me to leave and never come back?” she asks.
“Where will you go?”
“TJ’s, I guess. Gretchen’s. I can’t live in that house, RK. I can’t. That’s why I moved in with your dad when he was sick. I sold everything and never went back until I found out you were coming home and then I grabbed some blankets and a pillow, tried to stash all my shit in TJ’s room so you didn’t find out how pathetic and sad my life was, and moved back home. But it’s not my home. It’s where I met the monster who looked exactly like me. I want to wipe her away, RK. Forget all about her. Just look forward and never look back. These past few years have been the worst in my life. And when I saw you on TV, that very first time you were on TV, and I realized you were living my dream, well…” She stops.
Two years. I was gone two years before the first TV appearance.
Missy’s breath hitches with her crying. “Well, I was lost, RK. Lost. I wanted you back so bad. And I knew it was wrong to need you when I was at my lowest. It was wrong to need you. So I tried to put everything back together, RK. And living with your dad was the first step.”
“It took you two years to miss me?” It hurts, I admit. Two fucking years.
“That’s what you heard? From all that I just said? Are you kidding me? I missed you the moment I guessed what was happening in that bathroom. I missed you after the incident and at the funeral. I missed you the second you left, RK. Because you walked out, only you thought you were leaving Melanie. So she wins, right? She wins after all. Even though you know I’m alive and she’s dead, she wins. And that’s all I have to say, RK. That’s my story and you can believe it or not, but that’s my story and I’ll get out of your life now.” She reaches over, presses the garage door opener, gets out of the car, and walks away.
I sit in the truck, rolling the past few hours over in my head. It’s like a goddamned movie. I’m living some freaky, fucked-up Quentin Tarantino movie.
What the hell am I supposed to believe? This girl just admitted that her twin practiced being her for more than a decade. Fooled everyone, from teachers, to friends, and maybe even her father. And now she says she’s the girl I thought was dead.
What the fuck am I supposed to believe?
I don’t know. But I guess there’s only one way to find out what’s true and what’s not.
Be with her. Test her memories. See if she’s real, see if she’s not.
So I get out of the truck, walk down the driveway, walk straight into her house without knocking, and find her sitting on the blankets in her empty house.
“OK,” I say. “I believe you, Missy. I believe you and if you want to be part of my life, then…” I walk over and extend my hand. She stares at it, then up at me. “Then come home with me and we’ll work it out.”
She takes my hand with a smile and I pull her to her feet.
I’m just not sure what that smile means. Is she proud of her lie? Or is she happy we get a second chance at love?
I just don’t know yet, but I’m going to figure it out.
Chapter Fifteen
“Sorry I took over your room,” Missy says as we stand in the kitchen. “Most of my stuff is in TJ’s room now, so I’ll sleep in there.”
I wave a hand at her as I shrug off my leather jacket. She does the same and we both drape them over dining room chairs like we’ve made a habit of doing that over the years. “Forget it. I’m not interested in sleeping in that room. Or TJ’s for that matter. I’m fine on the couch.”
She nods with a slight smile. “OK. Well.” We stare at each other for a few awkward seconds.
“Well,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning then. We can take things from there.”
She nods and walks off, disappearing down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I grab a glass of water and take it into the living room, taking a long gulp and setting it down on the coffee table as I drop into the cushions of the wide sectional couch and sink back with a sigh.
What a fucking day. I have to let out a laugh at that. What a fucking month. Hell, months, I guess. How long ago was the accident? I lost track of time.
I flick on the TV out of habit, then flick it off again and fish my phone out of my pocket. It’s been a long time since I fell asleep to music and I miss it. That was a nightly ritual no matter where I was in the world. I slide the lock screen open and pull up my playlist. Sleep, it’s called.
A smile widens on my face because I’ve always found that funny. I write beautiful, poetic lyrics and my playlists are named Sleep, Writing, Driving, and Fucking. They have numbers and little descriptors after the titles to differentiate the types of sleep, or writing, or driving, or fucking music. Descriptors like Sleep Soft, Driving Coastline, Writing Love Songs, and Fucking Hard.
I’m about to choose Fu
cking Hard just for the memories, but… I look over my shoulder at the dark hallway. Fucking Hard music is too loud. Besides, I’m not really interested in reliving those memories. I use the Fucking category to wipe away the girls, their faces, their lies. They all lie. Oh, Rock, I hear them say in my mind. Oh, God, I love you so much.
All lies.
They want to fuck a rock star. They want to say they did it. Tell their friends, brag about it. They want to feel important and I guess being with a rock star does that for them. Lies. When was the last time someone loved me? Not me, Rock. Me, Rowan Kyle.
This is RK’s lie of a life.
But here’s the thing about being a rock star. I’m not allowed to have problems because I have money. People think fame and fortune wipes away problems but in my experience it just causes more. Problems like the logistics of flying from London to Singapore to make the next show. Problems like the piano is out of tune for the finale and makes me sound like shit. Problems like a hundred girls throwing themselves at me as I try to exit the building and get in a limo.
No one gives a fuck about those problems. I’m not allowed to complain about logistics, or music quality while playing a show, or trying to choose a girl to fuck, just because I need to feel something that doesn’t come with withdrawal sickness the next day.
Problems are things like no rent money, losing a house to the bank, kids getting sick the day you get laid off. Those are real problems.
Who cares if I have no friends left? No voice? Not one that people will recognize, anyway. Who cares if I am basically on house arrest up in what amounts to a beautiful national park in Colorado? No one, that’s who.
I sigh and choose Sleep Soft as my playlist, then kick my boots off as Beethoven’s Für Elise begins. I do a much better rendition of this than Beethoven does himself. I actually chuckle at that thought as I rip my shirt over my head, unbutton my pants, and slip my jeans off.
I leave the boxers on because of Missy.
I play Für Elise slow. I think Beethoven did it wrong. It loses its feeling when you play it at his tempo. Everything loses its feeling when you play it too fast. That’s why most of the Jack songs are fast. Rock and roll, man. Rock and fucking roll. Meaningless noise.
