“Twintuition.” She sniffs into the phone. “I felt it last night while I was with Hudson.”
Hudson. I still cannot get over that name.
“Oh Lord.”
“You had fun, didn’t you? You never texted me last night, so I was worried.” Through the line, she worries her bottom lip, a trait that always gave us away; Lucy would always chew her bottom lip while we were getting yelled at, like she’s doing now. “He wasn’t being a jerk, was he?”
Despite how groggy I am, my brows rise. “Is he normally a jerk?”
“No?”
“Why are you saying it like it’s a question? Don’t you know?”
“I’ve only been out with him twice, Amelia. I guess he can be kind of an asshole when he’s with his friends?” I imagine her bending down to re-tie her shoes. “So was he one with you?”
“No.” Not at all. He was perfect.
“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to see what you’d say.” She sounds satisfied. “I felt it.”
“Honest to God, would you please stop saying that?” She is so annoying sometimes, especially before seven AM. “You’re making me mental.”
She ignores me. “How long were you out?”
“I don’t know, I think I got home around one?”
“Really, that late?” Her air of approval is palpable. “What else?”
“Well, I mean, after he dropped me off at your place, I had to walk home.” I sound begrudged. “In the dark.”
“Yeah, yeah. Did he try to kiss us?”
Jesus. “Kind of.”
“Did we let him?”
“No, but it was a pretty hardcore dodge and weave.” And I wanted him too, so badly. We’re both dead silent, waiting for my answer. “There’s something I should probably tell you.” I take a deep breath and confess, “I accidentally spoke Spanish with him last night.”
Ten bucks says Lucy is wrinkling her nose at me. “He speaks Spanish?”
“Are you kidding me right now? Yes he speaks Spanish—he’s Latino. Do you pay attention to anyone but yourself?”
“Sue me for not knowing, jeez. Tell me what was said and how it pertains to me, and do it quickly—I haven’t started my run yet and I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
“I had a conversation with him in Spanish, Luce.” And the whole thing was so freaking sexy. The Rs rolling off his tongue…the deep timbre of his accent…
“Wait a minute.” My twin inhales a breath, catching on. “Did you forget the small fact that I don’t speak any Spanish! God Amelia, why would you do that to me?” my sister shouts through the phone. I pull it away from my ear, tapping down on the volume button.
“It just slipped out! I’m sorry, I got caught up in the moment.”
“Caught up in the moment? What the hell were you guys doing? I thought you went to a concert—no one talks at concerts!”
“We did go to a concert! But he was saying stuff and it was so sweet, it just felt natural to reply in Spanish, and then one thing led to another and we were having a conversation.”
“I don’t understand how it just slipped out,” she intones sarcastically.
I roll my eyes. “I doubt I have to explain how alluring he is, Lucy. You’ve been out with him twice—do you blame me?” Crap, that was totally inappropriate. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Uh…if you like this guy, just tell me, Amelia.”
“What would make you think I like him?” I want to face-palm myself with an anvil.
“You just said he was alluring. Who uses words like that?”
“I do.”
“Hmm.”
“You woke me up—what do you want me to say?”
The thing about my sister—no matter how flighty or vain or selfish she can be—is that she always wants what’s best for me. I know I’m not going back to sleep until we talk this out.
“The entire time I was out with Hudson last night, I kept getting these niggling vibes,” she begins slowly, enunciating every word. “Like, the whole damn time. I could barely concentrate on my date.”
I hate when she does this.
I hate when she’s right.
It’s creepy.
“Your twintuition is wrong.”
I’m lying and we both know it.
“Do you know,” she begins thoughtfully, “he’s been texting me since late last night, then again this morning, and now I know why half of them were in Spanish. I couldn’t freaking understand most of them, and I’m not about to Google translate a text conversation.”
“Oh? He texted you? That’s good.” I’m dying inside, doing my best to sound nonchalant despite this frantically beating heart.
The line goes quiet.
“Luce? What did he say?”
“The usual.”
She’s going to make me work for it.
“Which is what? I have no idea what the usual is.”
“Well, for one thing—and please don’t ever repeat this—Dash has never texted me before. Normally I’m the one sending him texts, which is so annoying. I hate when guys are like that. I hate having to message them first. I’m only admitting that to you because you’re my sister and I forced you to go out with him.”
I hate myself for asking, but, “Like…what else was he saying?” About me.
A loud sigh from the other end of the line. “I don’t remember, Amelia. Stuff. The point is, he must have thought I was acting like a complete freak, ’cause he asked if I was feeling better and said maybe it was a mistake taking me to a concert, said he regrets how it was impossible to talk, blah blah blah. So annoying, don’t you think? Anyway,” she continues without letting me answer, “thanks for doing such a crap job as my stand-in that he thought I was sick. You could have made out with him to be a little more convincing. He’s so hot.”
“I was doing you a favor!” My mouth gapes open. “You should’ve thought about that when you begged me to be you for the night so you could go out with some guy name Hudson. Hudson—seriously, what kind of a name is that?”
“He—”
I don’t let her get two words in before interrupting. “What did you think was gonna happen last night Lucy? With a guy like that, who has feelings—yeah, real feelings. He might be crazy good-looking, but he was really great, so yeah, the
Spanish just came flying out because I hardly get to practice anymore, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
“What the heck am I supposed to do? He’s going to say all this shit I’m not going to understand.”
Not to sound callous, but, “You don’t even like the guy!”
“How do you know?”
“If you liked Dash, you would have gone out with him and not Hudson.” I can barely get the guy’s name out.
There’s a long stretch of silence on the other end of the line, and I wonder what’s going through her mind right now as she formulates a reply. It’s either that or she’s stretching, prepping for her run.
“You’re right. You are totally, one hundred percent right.” I can hear the revelation taking over her speech and brace myself. “I should break it off. I like Hudson way better. He gave me two orgasms last night, Amelia—two, with his mouth.”
My mouth falls open, at a loss for words. “Lucy, how can you do that? That’s cheating!”
“Calm down, Miss Priss. It’s not like I knew I liked Hudson better before I double-booked myself. I had to sample the goods first.” She laughs cheerfully. “And thanks to you, I know how I feel! So no, it’s not like cheating. I’ll text Dash as soon as we hang up and dump him.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re going to break up with him over text?”
I can hear my sister studying her nails, bored with our conversation, maybe even picking at the split ends of her long hair as she stands out on the sidewalk. “Well it’s not like I’m going to see him any time soon, and I don’t feel like going on another date with him.”
Why doesn’t she like him? Why would she do th
is? This superficial young woman is not the sister I know. It’s those damn sorority girls she’s hanging out with.
She’s being callous and insensitive, and I don’t like it.
Stay out of it Amelia, my inner voice shouts. This is none of your business. Stay out of it before you say something you’ll regret, like how Dash is a great guy who smells amazing, is sweet in an unassuming way, and is too handsome for his own good.
And yet I can’t help but add, “He’s a nice guy—don’t you think he deserves to be told in person? Isn’t that what you would want if someone was breaking up with you?”
There’s a long pause, then the loud sigh my sister is famous for in our family. “Honestly? No, not really. If someone was breaking up with me, why would I want to see their face?”
“Because—”
Whatever I’m about to say gets cut off when Lucy interrupts me. “Look, I have to start my run if I’m going to finish on time and keep my day on track.”
“Fine,” I huff.
“But if this is so damn important to you, why don’t you break up with him for me? That saves me the trouble of doing it.”
“Going on a date with him was bad enough. I did a terrible job pretending to be you, and there is no way I’ll be able to look him in the eye and dump him for you.”
She pauses. “Hold on, someone just texted me.”
“Lucy! We’re in the middle of a conversation!”
The phone is silent as she pulls it away from her ear to check it. “That was Dash—again. I just texted him back and told him I’d meet him at Zin downtown tomorrow night at seven. You can break up with him then.”
“Lucy!” I shout, beyond exasperated. “I’m not breaking up with him for you!”
“Suit yourself.” Her voice is flippant. “I have no problem texting him.”
My stomach drops, a lead weight of guilt burdening me. “Don’t hang up! Okay, okay, I’ll do it. I’ll break up with him for you.”
She smiles on the other end of the line; I can hear it from here. “Thank you sissy. You won’t regret this.”
But she’s wrong.
I already do.
6
Amelia
I can’t decide: what does a person wear to break up with their sister’s boyfriend? A sweatshirt and jeans? A flirty top? Something dressier, because technically this could be considered a business meeting?
Khakis?
I stand in front of my closet, mid-panic, discarding one unsuitable shirt after another onto my bed, when what I should have done was force Lucy to choose a breakup outfit for me, like how she dressed me for the concert, since theoretically, I’m posing as her again.
Floral blouse? Way too fun.
Hot pink sweater? No—I’d die from heat stroke before I died from mortification.
No, no, and no—three more shirts join the others then out of the corner of my eye, I spot a dressy black turtleneck and impulsively yank it off its hanger.
Hold it up, inspecting it.
Prim. Proper.
Black.
Serious.
The perfect shit to wear if I was attending a funeral.
I slide it over my frame. It’s fitted, hugging all my curves, and yet, the perfect metaphor: my attendance at the death of my sister’s relationship with Dash Amado.
Don’t get me wrong, I might be on my way to give the guy his marching orders, but I don’t want to look like a complete frump.
Still.
I need to look and feel businesslike, and this onyx turtleneck is textbook professional. I’ll appear efficient, organized, and…
Now I sound like a lunatic.
With a sigh befitting my twin, I shimmy and stumble into a pair of dark wash jeans, feet sliding into black half boots, give my hair a quick tussle, swipe on some gloss, and—oh my God, I’m primping. I’m trying to look nice.
Which is so not the point!
“Stop it, Amelia, this is not a date,” I chastise myself, glaring into the mirror, angry. Rest my hands on either side of my dresser, looking my reflection in the eye. “Why are you doing this? You like him. You cannot pull this off.”
I rise to my full height, puffing out my chest. “Yes you can. You can do this. You’ve broken up with guys before. Hell, you’ve broken up with Lucy’s boyfriends before.”
Twice, in high school.
I felt braver back then than I do now.
What’s done is done; Lucy is out with Hudson tonight, and I’m on my way to meet Dash. There’s no turning back.
I can only move forward.
He’s late.
At seven o’clock sharp, I watch, engrossed as a large figure emerges through the door of Zin. I’m waiting with baited breath, watching when he tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes.
Everything about Dash Amado is dark: his black quilted jacket, his jet-black hair, his complexion.
He flashes a friendly grin to the bartenders when he walks past, toward me, his pearly whites a stark contrast against his skin. Dark. Smooth. Handsome.
Through the dim lighting in the wine bar, I watch him peel off his jacket, sauntering his way over, surveying the crowd. There aren’t many people here tonight so it’s not long before our gazes connect.
In a few strides he’s at my side, sliding onto the barstool next to mine, kissing the top of my head. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. I had to see the trainer—he was showing me a new way to wrap my wrists.”
I can’t stop my eyes from glancing down. I raise my brows, curious.
“They’re not wrapped right now, just for practice.” He cuffs his wrist with one hand, rubbing it. “Have you been here long?”
“I walked in just a few minutes early, so no. It’s no big deal, the bartenders were keeping me company.” Totally something Lucy would say, only she’d add a flirtatious smile, maybe touch his sleeve.
“Speaking of which, I’m thirsty.” His lean torso leans across the bar, long arm snatching a drink menu before flagging down one of the bartenders. His eyes flicker to the water glass in front of me. “Do you want anything else or are you sticking with water?”
“Water is good.” I’m here to do a job and need a clear mind. Drinking would be a horrible idea, though I may need a drink at the end of the night, maybe a shot or two, or three.
Dash nods down at my beverage, speaking to the guy behind the bar as he strolls over, drying a glass. “I’ll have what she’s having, and an iced tea if you have it? Thanks.”
Whatever words I’m about to say get caught in my throat when he spins in his seat to face me, chugging down almost all of his glass of ice water, Adam’s apple bobbing. Shaved neck, dark sideburns.
Dear Lord he’s good-looking.
His eyes slide up and down the front of my shirt, landing briefly on my breasts. Lips quirk. “Nice turtleneck.”
I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic.
“I like turtlenecks. They’re warm,” I croak out, body blazing like an inferno, wanting to hook my index finger in the collar of my shirt and give it a tug. Yank it off, up over my head. Get it off my body, hating it.
His black brows go up. “I said I liked it. I wasn’t being a dick.”
“Oh. Well…thanks, I guess.”
I’ve never been this nervous in my entire life, not even when I took my sister’s college entrance exam.
He regards me over the top of his iced tea, the lemon wedge moving up and down like a jellyfish in the ocean.
“You look good though. Muy bueno. I think I like this shirt better than the one you wore on Friday night.”
“Really?” I run a hand over my stick-straight hair, which I let air-dry after my shower. I’m hardly wearing any makeup, just some lip gloss—basically, my attempt at looking serious.
“You can’t even see my neck.” You can’t see anything. This shirt is a protective layer between us; I don’t want to feel sexy or attractive or pretty when I’m here to complete a task.
And yet…the goof likes it.
I like the way he’s staring, taking my measure. I love the way he talks, the sound of his voice, even if he’s not really talking to me.
The thought is sobering, and I gaze down at the shiny bar top despondently, picking at the corner of the white cocktail napkin under my glass of water. Zin, a wine bar in downtown Iowa City – drink old wine, date young men.
I study the slogan, running my fingers over the burgundy embossed writing, the texture of the paper feeling coarse under my fingertips.
Over and over it, around the cursive lettering.
He’s still watching me when I look up.
“Should we have them seat us somewhere? I’m starving.”
Hesitantly I nod, hopping down off the barstool, aware of just how big he is, how imposing.
Chest like a wall of steel, I bump into it inadvertently when I stand, apprehensively gathering my purse and coat from the stool, nerves making my palms sweaty.
I’m about to break up with my sister’s boyfriend.
I already feel terrible for what I’m about to do—not because I think they’d make such a great couple, but because I like spending time with him, and once I tell him it’s over between him and Lucy…
I’ll probably never see him again.
Nonetheless, I trail along after him toward the hostess stand, idly waiting as he requests a table.
For two.
In the back corner.
When we’re seated, Dash leans in, setting his hands on the table, moving aside his fork and knife and the rest of the utensils. “Can I be brutally honest with you?”
Please don’t. “Sure.”
“The first few times we went out, I wasn’t feeling it at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know I only went out with you because you’re the one who asked, right? I never would have asked you out.”
This surprises me, and I rear back in my seat, slightly affronted—and embarrassed—on my sister’s behalf.
What do I even say to that?
“Before you get offended, let me finish what I was going to say.”
Because I have nothing to say, I nod. “Okay.”
“I haven’t dated much. Since you’re familiar with the Latino culture, you’ve probably guessed I come from a really traditional family. Mis padres raised me to be in a monogamous relationship, not sleep around, ¿sabes lo que digo?” Know what I mean? he asks, tan, masculine hands picking apart a napkin, the tiny white pieces like snow on the black tabletop. “Anyway, I figured we’d go out a few times and that would be it.”
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