by Jay McLean
If mysteries were like presents, he’d have layers upon layers of gift wrap.
He says, “Are you not hungry?”
I shake my head but don’t offer an explanation. Telling him I’m saving my pennies and the reasons why is not a conversation for—I check the time—an 11 pm diner outing.
“So...” I tap the table with my fingers, one after the other, like a wave of nails crashing on the shore. “I take it Miles is home?”
Noah nods, his exhale loud enough for me to hear over the humming of Hozier playing from the speakers above. He asks, “What were his old roommates like?”
I shrug, realizing it’s odd conversing with someone when I’m not being forced to. I find myself preparing the sentences in my mind before speaking them out loud. The wrong words can get you in a lot of trouble, Andie. I learned that the first day I was there, before I was even shown my bed. “I’m not sure,” I tell him, my words coming out slow. Swallowing my nerves, I add, “I only moved in a week before you guys, and Milky said she’d only ever seen Miles around.”
The boy’s eyebrows knit, his gaze locked on my moving fingers. “Milky moved in before you did?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Less than a month, though. She moved in to set it up for when I—” I cut myself off before revealing too much.
His gaze lifts to mine as he lazily sprawls in his seat, one arm resting on the table, the other on the top of the booth. “Bradley said you guys are twins?”
My water arrives with his coffee, and we say, “thank you” in unison. Noah spins his cap backward, a simple move that has me wishing he’d do it again. His eyes meet mine, just for a second, before his gaze drops to his steaming cup of liquid life and his lips push out as he blows the heat away from his drink.
The cap trick was nothing compared to watching his lips form that shape.
Nothing.
I devour my glass of water in a single hit.
He sips his coffee as if we have all the time in the world.
“So?” he asks, leaning on his elbows, his coffee cup between his forearms. “Is it true? You guys are twins?”
I nod, swallow, nod again. “Y-yeah. Identical.”
His lips quirk into a smile. “I figured. You have the same facial features, but your hair’s different... and your shapes.”
He’s noticed our shapes? No. He’s noticed her shape. Of course, he’s noticed her. Of course, the topic of conversation is her. I force a smile, having no right to be jealous. “You mean that she’s all toned and tanned, and I’m—”
“And you’re all soft, feminine curves and perfection?” The second the words leave his mouth, his eyes widen and his hands form fists. “I need to use the bathroom,” he announces. And then he’s gone.
The waitress returns to fill up my water, and I devour it, my throat desert-dry and my heart pumping nervous anxiety through my cells.
Noah returns a minute later, his gaze never shifting from the dull, gray linoleum floor. “So… twins, huh?” he asks, sitting back in the booth. He wants to forget his earlier words, and I attempt to force myself to do the same.
At least until I’m home.
Alone.
I say, “Apparently, it’s genetic, but it skips a generation. Chromosomes are fascinating.” Chromosomes are fascinating? What the fucking fuck did I just say?
Luckily, the waitress returns with three plates of food, all for Noah, and I silently thank her for giving him an out by allowing him to stuff his mouth full of pancakes.
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask, trying to save the conversation.
He offers me a smile that’s nowhere near as breathtaking as his others, because it’s nowhere near as honest. “So, is it just you two?” he says, switching the subject back to me as he shoves his barely-eaten pancakes toward me and starts on his steak sandwich.
I pick up my fork, hesitate for only a second. “Yep,” I say, mouth full of spongy goodness, my manners less than on par with the boy watching me from across the table. “We were raised by our grandparents when our parents no longer could.”
His eyes widen, and I realize how it sounds.
“No. Nothing like that,” I assure. “Our parents were wandering gypsies, literally. They lived out of an old RV and traveled wherever the stars would take them.”
“The stars?” he asks, no longer paying attention to his food, his focus solely on me. “Is that where Andromeda comes from?”
I nod, my shoulders relaxing as the conversation flows. I’m no longer wary of being with him, alone, and no longer stuttering over my words. “Our grandparents told us that our parents didn’t believe in doctors, so when they realized my mom was pregnant, they kind of just winged it.”
“Winged it?”
Another nod. “My dad, my grandparents’ son, learned all about pregnancy and childbirth through books while Mom drove the RV. They’d planned to just take the baby with them, because what could be the harm in that, right?”
“Right.” Noah chuckles.
“And because of their love of stars, they decided early to name me Andromeda; boy or girl, it could always be shortened to Andie, you know?”
He nods, his gaze and his genuine smile urging me to continue.
I lean forward, forearms on the table, mimicking his position. “So, when I was born in the back of their RV, I had a name, but because they never visited a doctor, they never had an ultrasound, so they had no idea—”
“Your mom was carrying twins!” Noah finishes for me. We’re so close I can feel every one of his exhales, and I want to bathe in their warmth. Ignoring the fluttering in my stomach, I tell him, “The contractions didn’t end after I was born, and my mom felt like she needed to push again, so she did, and ta-da.”
He snorts. It’s hot.
“And they didn’t know what to name her—this surprise baby—so they kept on with the stars’ theme and named her after the...” I trail off and wait for the conclusion to hit him, and when it does, his mouth forms a perfect O.
“No way,” he whispers.
I nod. “Yes way. Milky Way.”
“You’re lying.”
“Nope. Actually, her full name is Milky hyphen Way. But she dropped the Way when we were seven after she was made fun of one too many times.”
With every shake of his head, his smile gets wider. “I thought it was her stripper name.”
“No. Her stripper name is Moist Folds.”
He leans back, his face serious. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”
I smile at his response, an expression so foreign I wonder if it’s real. “I’m totally lying. I’m pretty sure her stripper name is Milky, too.”
“They couldn’t have chosen something else? Like, I don’t know. Taurus? Tori for short?”
My eyebrows rise. “I never thought of that.”
“So, what happened to them—your parents?”
I shrug. “Parenting wasn’t for them. They dropped us off at our grandparents when we were one. I hold absolutely zero grudges toward them. It could have been worse.” I nudge his foot under the table while I steal a sip of his coffee. “Tell me more about your family.”
He shrugs. “There’s really nothing much to say. I live in a small town about an hour north of here. Both my parents are psychologists. The end.”
“The end?”
“Yep.” The waitress returns, and he orders another coffee for himself since I hijacked his.
“So, are you in school?” I edge.
He nods, tells me he’s studying at NC State, no definite major but probably something in science—which makes me smile. Bradley was his next-door neighbor and his best friend. He asks me about where Milky and I are from, and I offer him as little as possible. Then he asks about us growing up and if the dynamic between us had always been the same. I don’t think he knows us well enough to know our dynamic, but I shrug it off because I love the way he speaks, the way his mouth moves, the way every word is enunciated to perfection. I tell him that it wasn�
�t until we were in high school that Milky and I found our separate personalities. “I was the quiet, nerdy one. Debate team, honor roll, mathlete...” I almost choke on the last word, but recover quickly. “Around ninth grade, she started to wear her skirts shorter and her tops tighter, and I just stuck with the regular school uniform because I was a goody two-shoes and didn’t want to get in trouble.”
His eyebrow quirks. “Uniform?”
After sipping my coffee, I nod. “We went to an all-girl Catholic school.”
His gaze switches from intrigue to... something else.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, focused a little too much on his hands.
I roll my eyes. “It’s the catholic-school-girl-uniform thing, huh?” Guys are so predictable.
His cheeks bloom to a beautiful pink, and I expect him to stay quiet. But instead, he asks, “Do you still have the uniform?”
I pick up a fry off his plate and throw it at his face, marveling at the way his head throws back with his laughter. Another clue to his mystery. “No!” I lie.
After finding the flying fry, he pops it in his mouth and chases it with a lick of his bottom lip, his eyes never leaving me. “Damn shame.”
We spend four hours talking in the diner, not once opening our books to study. At 3 am, we decide to call it a night, his hand on its usual spot on my back as he guides me to his car. Disappointment floods us when we near our house and realize the party is still in full swing, but Noah doesn’t pull into the driveway. Instead, he does a U-turn and parks in a street opposite, facing the house. “Don’t judge me,” he says, taking out his phone and dialing 9-1-1.
I hide my smile against my shoulder, glad he thought of it, because I need to be up in five hours for work. He’s smooth as he relays our dilemma to the operator and gives our address. When he hangs up, silence becomes our friend again.
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.
I play with my seatbelt.
Then he says, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” I answer. “You?”
“Eighteen. But almost nineteen.”
“Wow. You’re young. I hope the cops don’t question us when they get here. This may be considered kidnapping,” I joke.
He pokes my side, and I squeal and attempt to move away from him. His firm grasp on my elbow stops me. I turn to him, his face so close to mine I can see the different shades of blues in his eyes reflected by the street lamp above us.
He smiles, bewildering, while his gaze shifts from my eyes to my lips, back and forth, up and down, over and over.
I swallow, nerves prickling my skin, goosebumps forming all over my body. “Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Just... about you and that school girl outfit.”
“Oh,” I breathe out. It’s all I can think to say. Then I chant the mantra circling in my mind: I cannot, will not, act on my attraction to him.
Chapter Twelve
Andie’s Past
“You’re so dramatic!” Milky yelled as she followed me down the stairs and through the sitting room where my school bag sat on the coffee table. “We’re only in tenth grade! Why are you so worried?”
I couldn’t breathe, my lungs wheezing through every inhale, every exhale. My fingers shook while I went through the contents of my bag, searching for my inhaler.
“It’s not the end of the world!”
“Shut up!” I whispered. “Just shut up!” I finally found my inhaler at the bottom of my bag, right next to the economics quiz that started this mess. I got a B-. A B fucking minus. It was the worst grade I’d ever received, and I was so sure, so positive I’d nailed it. What the hell had gone wrong?
“It’s not like this one measly grade is going to affect your chances of getting into Harvard, Andie. Jesus Christ.”
I held the inhaler to my mouth, pressed down on the canister, and inhaled manufactured life into my lungs.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” my sister said.
I wanted to punch her. My dream after graduating high school was an Ivy League university, and considering our grandparents lived off their retirement, a scholarship was my only hope. My sister’s dream was to follow in our parents’ footsteps. Milky was a joke, and I’d had enough of her shit.
I offered my sister a glare and moved around her toward the back of the house, but she was there—always a step behind me, my twin. I needed air, and I needed to get away from the girl who was sucking all of it out of every fucking room she followed me through.
The back patio doors slid open effortlessly, and I stepped out, hunching over as soon as earthly air hit my lungs.
“See? You’ve worked yourself up now,” Milky said, and I gripped the inhaler harder in my hand. “And you’re making a fool of yourself in front of Matt,” she hissed.
I glanced up just long enough to see Matt standing in our yard. He’d been around a lot lately doing odd jobs for our grandparents, though they were all favors—he refused every dime they offered. Last weekend, he cleaned out the gutters, then he helped my grandmother with the weeding. A few days ago, he helped set up some new, fancy television in the den for my grandfather, and now he was cleaning our pool. It made no sense why he helped so much, especially considering his house had a pool, too, and a roof, a gutter, a garden, and I never once saw him doing that shit over there.
“Is everything okay?” he called out, and I sensed him coming closer. I should have found the energy to stand straighter, but I couldn’t. Milky was right. I had worked myself up to a panic attack, and I hated that they were both there to witness it.
“She’s fine,” Milky said, rubbing my back in an attempt to show fake concern. “She has these panic attacks.”
I growled, hating that she was exposing my secrets to a man I barely knew.
His sneaker-covered feet came into my vision when he stood in front of me, then his hand settled on my shoulder as his knees bent so we were eye to eye. The concern in his stare lit a spark somewhere between my heart and my stomach, and I tried to force a smile. I couldn’t. “Are you okay, Andromeda?”
I nodded.
Milky said, “She’s fine. This always happens.”
Matt ignored her, kept his focus on me. “What are you so worked up about? Did a boy hurt you? All I need is a name, and I’ll take care of it.” He was kidding. At least I thought he was. Because he was smiling at me as he took me in again, the way I’d caught him doing a few times before. The spark he’d set off moved lower down my body, somewhere between my hips. I stood taller, hoping to alleviate the dull ache growing there, and assured him I was fine. But I wasn’t. Not really. The constricting in my chest happened again. Only that time—I’m not positive it was panic that caused it.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just got a bad grade. That’s all.”
Milky moved to stand between us. “Will you tell her she’s being ridiculous?”
Matt shrugged, finally dropping his hand from my shoulder. “If it’s important to Andie then...” he trailed off, and I found myself smiling at the way he understood me. “Hey, your grandparents invited me to your birthday party this weekend. You girls excited?”
Milky sighed. “It’s going to be lame. It’s just a bunch of family and friends willing to show up to a place with no booze.”
Matt laughed at her response, and unexpected jealousy swarmed through my blood.
And then, Milky being Milky, said, “Would you ever consider dating a sixteen-year-old? You know... the legal age for consensual sex in North Carolina is sixteen.”
I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Or maybe I just wanted a hole big enough to throw Milky in. Matt laughed again, but it was softer, faker. “Age is just a number.” His eyes met mine, darkness pooled in their depths. “Right, Andie?”
I can’t recall a time when Matteo Rossi had ever not stood out from the crowd, but never more so than at Milky’s and my sixteenth birthday party
. Surrounded by pink and white balloons and streamers, the man next door was at least a head taller than our friends from school and my grandparents’ friends who were invited to join in on the celebration. Milky was mature for our age, or maybe I was just immature. While she snuck out of the house on Saturday nights to party and drink the night away, spending the following Sunday hungover and locked in her room so my grandparents were none the wiser, I spent whatever time I had buried in books and school and even homework that wasn’t required. And so while we were handed gifts from our guests, mainly money and gift cards, Milky continuously scoffed at the lameness of the party, while I walked around from person to person, thanking them for their kindness and generosity from the both of us. Matt was the last to approach us, another gift card for the mall; a hundred dollars each— more than anyone else had given. Milky hugged him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her breasts pressed to his chest, and I shook his hand, smiled as I repeated the words I’d said to everyone else.
We blew out the thirty-two candles on our shared cake, and soon enough, the guests started to leave. Against our grandparents’ wishes, Milky left with her friends, and I hung around to help clean up the mess our day-of-birth celebration had left behind. Matt offered to stay, too, convincing my grandparents that it’d been a long day and they deserved to relax—another undeserved, kind gesture.
I’d thought about Matt a little—or maybe a lot—since he saw the buildup of my impending panic attack out in our yard, since he said that age was just a number—and I wondered why it was he was always hanging around. I hadn’t seen many people go in and out of his house, and I assumed that maybe he didn’t have any family. Maybe he was just lonely. I didn’t really understand loneliness. I was far too busy for it. “That was some party,” Matt said, dumping baby-pink napkins with half-eaten cake into a trash bag.
“It was nice,” I said, not looking at him. “Thanks again for coming. And for the present. It was very kind of you.”
