by Liz Durano
The first friend wants to meet us for drinks at the James. Another one suggests the Top of the Standard while yet another one says Soho House. I can’t get over how popular Blythe is, and how, if it were me back in Nevada City, I’d have run out of bars to pick from because there are only two places in town. The rest are in Auburn and other neighboring towns, and the last thing I want to do is drive on Highway 49 late at night, not even when someone else is behind the wheel.
Tonight, we're wearing matching lace dresses we purchased earlier, each one tailored to fit us perfectly. Hers is red, and mine is hunter green, with matching open toe shoes though the clutches we carry are black. The last thing Alicia wanted us to look like were Christmas decorations walking around Manhattan.
The clutch is only big enough to fit an old flip phone Blythe threatens to replace tomorrow, my California driver's license, a credit card, and a tube of lipstick she swears will brighten any day. There's also my passport that Blythe tells me I’ll need to have with me should Ethan fly us anywhere in the world at a moment's notice.
“The next two weeks are going to be awesome! We could even end up in Paris, or Milan, or the Bahamas! But I have to warn you that Ethan has to work part of the time. He’s got a big tournament in a few days, but it’s in a place where I know you’ll love.”
“Where?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Great,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “So what's this event about? Is there anything I need to know before we walk in there?"
"It's not what you know, Billie, that gets you ahead in life. It's who you know. And this is not an event. We're just here to hang out before joining Ethan for dinner," she says as she takes my hand and leads me into a hotel bar that's crowded with the best-looking people I've ever seen in my life. Everyone seems to have walked out of a fashion magazine, and for the first time, I'm grateful that Blythe gave me the full body make-over the day I got into town.
I don't realize how nervous I am till Blythe squeezes my hand reassuringly. But it doesn't work, for I feel an anxiety attack coming on. I've never been used to large crowds, not when they seem to be surging towards us, everyone saying her name.
But Blythe is ready, for she’s known the signs of my anxiety attacks since we were children. She grabs my hand and with a wave of her hand, she tells everyone that we’ll be right back, steering me into the ladies’ room, which thankfully is empty. Blythe rests her hands on my shoulders and peers at me.
"It's going to be okay, Bee, I promise. Nothing’s going to happen, and you’ll do fine,” she says as I take deep breaths. "It was either this or sitting at the penthouse waiting for Ethan."
"I don't mind waiting."
"Well, I do," she says. "Besides, you're the sister I want everyone to meet. Just because we’ve barely talked in three years doesn't mean I don't miss you, or talk about you.”
When I don’t say anything, she grabs the clutch that I'm holding in front of me like it's my armor and sets it on the bathroom counter next to hers. “Look, I know this isn't Nevada City, but don't you think it's time you got out of that little town for a while and lived a little? Just a little?"
I nod.
"Ever since Mom and Dad died, that's all you've done, but you can't expect to hide behind that counter forever," she says. "I mean, that's what employees are for!"
"Employees that I have to pay to work behind that counter right now!”
"Two weeks, Billie, that's all. Two weeks is all I ask of you," she implores, giving me the best sad face she can give me. "Just pretend you're me like we used to do when we were kids. Remember how much fun we used to have, making people believe I was you and you were me?"
I take a deep breath and exhale, grateful that Blythe took the time to pull me aside. It's crazy for me to feel this way, letting my anxiety get the better of me, but I tell myself that I'm also exhausted, and all I want to do tonight is slip under the luxurious Frette covers of the guest bed and read a good book. But Blythe also has a point. I can't hide from the world forever.
“Okay then. Two weeks and then my world returns to normal," I tell her, forcing a smile. "Who knows? I just might get used to all this."
“Yessay, ohsay!" Blythe exclaims happily in pig-Latin, hugging me tightly. "Two weeks of East Coast parties and you can go back home and stand behind that counter all you want. You can even let your Brazilian grow out. And just so you know, men love it, and sex feels way better without all that hair. Not only that but they’re quicker to go down on you.”
“Oh, God! I can’t believe you just said that,” I groan, grabbing both clutches from the counter and handing one to Blythe as we make our way out of the ladies’ room and back to the bar.
“Why not? It’s true," Blythe says as she grabs my hand again and guides me through the crowd. Her touch fills me with the familiar feeling of closeness that we used to share before the world beyond Highway 49 transformed us as different as night and day.
And she's right. Before long, I'm having fun as we're surrounded by Blythe's friends from the fashion world that include stylists and photographers, models, production assistants and personal assistants. At first, they're so enthralled by how identical we look that it's all they talk about, but soon, muscle memory kicks in, and they speak of work, tossing names of designers expected to have showings at the upcoming Fashion Week, and who among the Who's Who was holding which party where.
I don't know how Blythe remembers them all, but she does, and she does it so effortlessly. She’s a celebrity in the making, with her social media accounts and her perfect smile, and all I can do is watch her and marvel as she works the room. Maybe I’ll learn to step out of my comfort zone one day—even step out of her shadow—and live a life as exciting as hers.
Who knows? Maybe one day, I can be just like her.
When Blythe drifts away from me to head to the rooftop pool with her friends, I don't panic. Instead, I'm curious about the artwork that surrounds me, eclectic paintings and sculptures that grace the walls of the bar. I'm reading the information on one of the paintings when a stocky blonde man entering the front door sees me and waves his hand.
“Blythe! There you are! We’ve been looking all over for you!”
Here we go again. I smile at him, shaking my head. ”If you're looking for-"
"Ethan sent me to fetch you since he can’t be seen in Manhattan at the moment, not when Heath’s stalking him,” he says, his voice lowering and his expression turning serious.
“My sister is out by the pool.”
"Don't worry about your sister. It's not like she's a child. She'll be just fine," he says, grabbing my arm tightly. “C’mon, let’s go—now!“
I pull away from him, but his grip on my wrist is tight. And if I thought I Jackson was being an idiot, someone has slid up behind me.
"Jackson Denman, just the man I’m looking for. So, where’s Ethan? I’d assume he got my messages?” It’s a voice I can recognize anywhere, the same voice I prefer not to hear again.
“Like it’s any of your business where he is,” Jackson says under his breath as he lets go of my arm and straightens and straightens himself. He’s sweating, and as he wipes his face with a handkerchief, I realize that along with a sculpture of a couple in a compromising position displayed on a pedestal to my left, I don't have much room to maneuver away from them.
“What’s Mr. Big-Shot’s got to say now, eh?” scoffs Jackson. “So much for your superiority act when it turns out, you’re nothing but a fraud. And to think, everyone thought she was one classy lady.”
The air between them thickens with anger, and I wish I were anywhere else but caught between two men talking about something I know nothing about.
“Now, just because you’re Ethan’s assistant doesn’t mean you forget your place with me, Jackson,” Heath says. “Remember who fired you.”
“Look, guys, whatever is going on between you two, leave me out of it,” I say, but Heath's arm wraps around my waist, rooting me in place.
"Why should we, Blythe, when this involves you, too, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about?” Heath says, and I can feel his breath warm against my ear, fanning my hair.
“Actually, I don’t,” I hiss just as Heath presses his body against me, his grip around my waist tightening. His touch is warm, almost hot, and I feel an electric charge go through me. I glance towards the door leading to the rooftop, hoping to catch Blythe's attention, but other patrons are blocking my way.
This time, it’s Jackson’s turn to chuckle dryly. “I’ll tell you who’s going to get fired next, Heath. It’s you, especially when word gets out about who and what you really are in the grand scheme of things.”
“I’d be careful if I were you to talk about things you know nothing about, Jackson,” Heath says as Jackson grabs my hand and pulls me away from Heath.
“We need to get going, Blythe,” Jackson says, glaring at me.
“Now why would you want dear Blythe here out of New York so soon when I hear she’s supposed to meet my brother for dinner? Why are you in such a rush, Jackson? What's up?” Heath asks, his voice a lazy drawl that bears an edge of anger.
“None of your business, Heath,” Jackson growls, but as he reaches for my hand again, a movement to our right distracts us. A tall redhead with striking green eyes approaches, gorgeous in a cream silk dress and looking as if she just stepped out of a fashion magazine. As she locks her gaze on Heath, Jackson and I might as well have been invisible.
“Heath, darling! When did you get in? Did you get my calls?”
As Jackson lets go of my hand, I see a change on his face. It’s an expression I see when people realize who I am, that I’m not my twin sister. And with Jackson, I recognize the same look in the way his eyes narrow, and a small smile lifts one corner of his mouth.
He knows.
“Well, I’m out of here,” Jackson announces as Natasha leans forward to plant a kiss on Heath’s mouth. I look away, wishing Heath would just let me go so he and Natasha can do whatever it is they're doing, but instead, he recoils away from her. As he takes a step back, he drags me along with him, his arm still tight around my waist. From the corner of my eye, I see Jackson hurrying towards the pool.
Natasha pouts. “Oh, Heath, I can't believe you're still angry at me."
“Angry? You must mean indifferent, Natasha. I can't be angry at someone I no longer give a damn about,” he says. “Why don’t you go back to your lovely groupies over there. That way, you wouldn't have to settle with only one.”
Natasha turns to face me; her face is livid. ”Why am I not surprised, Blythe? I always figured you had the hots for Heath, and why not? He's the one with the most money, right?"
“Whatever,” I find myself saying as I roll my eyes, surprising even myself at how much I sound like Blythe. If I can't beat them, I might as well join them, especially since I can't seem to get away from Heath, no matter how hard I try. I also don't want to humiliate my sister by punching Heath's lights out.
"Suit yourself, Blythe," Natasha says. "Just get ready to find out just how all work and no play has made Heath such a dull boy. I would have stayed with Ethan if I were you."
Natasha walks away before Heath and I can respond, though even if I were to say something, I honestly had nothing to say. I had no skin in this game. All I want is to get away from these people and spend time with my sister.
As Heath's grip loosens from around my waist, I step away from him. But he's fast, and before I know it, he spins me around to face him, deftly pushing me back against the wall and plants his palms on either side of me.
“For crying out loud, don’t you know anything about personal space?” I snap as Heath leans closer and I'm forced to lean my head back against the wall.
"Oh, I know all about personal space, Blythe, but right now, you’ve got none until you tell me where my brother is.”
"All I have to do is scream my head off, you bastard, and I'll have more than just my personal space back," I say as Heath draws even closer, his knee between my thighs.
“Then do it," he whispers. "You could have done it earlier, but you didn't. Is this all part of your plan?”
"What plan? What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about, Blythe. Are you really so good in bed that you've got my brother wrapped around your little finger, blind to what's really happening? Should I see for myself?" His gaze drifts from my eyes to my lips, staying there a bit too long.
To everyone else, we look like a couple about to kiss. It's the farthest thing from what's actually happening, but there's something about the closeness of Heath's body that leaves me unable to do anything but stand there as if waiting for the kiss that's never going to come.
But it does. It's soft and tender, and it takes me completely by surprise. My heart thunders inside my chest, and blood is coursing through my temples. The world spins around me, and I realize that I've even closed my eyes. I even kissed him back, the feel of his soft lips against mine making me lose all common sense.
"Stop this," I whisper, pushing him away even as I struggle to break free from the spell that's kept me rooted to the spot as I lift my gaze to his face. His eyes are dark blue, with specks of gray.
“Now answer me, Blythe. Where the fuck is Ethan?” he asks, breaking the spell.
“Why don't you ask Jackson yourself? Because before you got all alpha on me, he was just about to tell me. And for the last time, I am not Blythe. I’m her sister, Billie.”
Heath's eyes narrow, and it feels as if he's finally seeing me for the very first time as me, Billie. But before he can reply, his phone rings from his jacket pocket. As he takes his arm from the wall next to me to answer the call, I slip away from him, my heart beating so fast. Three men walking past me call out his name, something about meeting them for drinks later that evening at the Polo Bar with some models.
I don’t wait to hear what Heath has to say. I rush to the pool area, wanting only to find Blythe. I find her friends sitting on lounge chairs by the pool, talking about upcoming designers showing their lines in next year’s Fashion Week. But none of them have seen Blythe, not since Jackson whisked her away from them just minutes earlier.
As the panic slowly mounts, I know Blythe would never leave me, not even if Jackson insisted that I'll be okay without her. She just wouldn’t. And even if she did have to go without me, she would have found a way to tell me, or, at least, get me safely back to the penthouse.
My thoughts are racing a mile a minute, conversations around me causing my panic to build before I realize that I never told Blythe about Heath's message for Ethan. As the DJ starts blasting house music on the speakers, I duck into the ladies' room and hide in one of the stalls to catch my breath. I open my clutch and pull out my phone—only it’s not my old flip phone that Blythe has threatened to replace. It's Blythe’s, and it requires her password or her thumbprint to access.
My hands begin to shake as I realize that somehow, I gave her the wrong clutch when we left the bathroom earlier. Unable to believe what I’m looking at it, I pull out the cards, careful not to drop them into the toilet. All I see is Blythe's name stamped on everything, from her New York driver's license, Equinox gym card, and her precious Gold card. Then her lipstick, which she claims can brighten any day, falls right into the toilet bowl.
3
Alone In Manhattan
I commit my first act of fraud in the cab when I sign Blythe's name on the credit card receipt half an hour later. With no cash on hand, it's the only thing I have to pay the cab fare since I don't have Conrad's number to let him know that I'm ready to be driven back to the penthouse. At least, I've committed Blythe's address to memory, and even the doorman forgives me when I tell him I've left my keycard upstairs and would he be kind enough to swipe his master key card for the elevator that goes directly up to the penthouse?
I’m hoping that Ethan is alright after all, and they’re probably on the sofa, making out like teenagers and just
needing some time alone. But when the elevator doors open to the penthouse, the whole place is quiet, and I don't need to inspect every room to know that Blythe is not home, but I do anyway.
Besides the living areas, there are four bedrooms, five bathrooms, an office, and even a wine cellar, its total square footage larger than the two-story turn-of-the-century house where Blythe and I grew up. Everything in the penthouse is of contemporary design with its overall gray and white theme. Even the fresh flowers are white and probably meant to go with the decor, which to me is bland. It's too sterile, and worse, there's not a bookshelf anywhere. There are coffee table books, all of them on contemporary architecture from the likes of Libeskind, Meier and Koolhaas, and modern art line the walls.
I check the master bedroom to see if anything is missing. But nothing has been disturbed in the master bedroom. Her shoes are where she last kicked them off when we got back from shopping that afternoon, lying on their side next to the closet doors, and her dress is slung over a chair back. Even the bed is the way I'd left it that morning, hastily made up.
I had spent my first night in Manhattan in her bed, falling asleep next to her after hours of catching up over the last three years, though it was Blythe who did most of the talking. What was there for me to say about my life when all I do is wake up, make my coffee, go downstairs and open the shop? Maybe there's inventory to be tallied and ordered; maybe even vendor shows that I have to go to for a few days with new inventory stocked at the back of my truck. But other than trips to the river where I can cool off on hot days, there’s nothing else to say about my life. Blythe, on the other hand, had more stories to tell about her life since leaving Nevada City three years ago.
