Page 47 of The Chance

I push the plate back across to my laughing twin and my eyes bug out when the heat hits. My tongue burns, stomach churns, mouth on fire.

As much as I hate it, it’s also a reprieve from the shit that’s been rolling through my mind all damn day. A nice distraction. A different kind of pain.

I know I got up in my sleep, like I have been for months now. Peach tried to hide it, but the signs are there. Like the ache in my foggy head and the dryness to my eyes that won’t go away. Still in the same clothes I wore on stage last night, though I swore I took a shower. The rolling nausea threatening my stomach and the never-ending pounding in my temples.

Not to mention the feathers in my hair.

No clue how I got them, but when I woke up, Peach was chasing off the cleaning staff and throwing a pillow at my head.

It’s … embarrassing.

To know that there are moments where I have no control over what I do. What I say.WhoI say it to.

It’s never been this bad.

I thought the sleeping pills would help tamp down the effects.

If anything, I just feel fucking hungover—severely—and still exhausted. Tense and fucking nauseous.

Half out of my mind and homesick.

Heartsick.

Is that a thing? Sure as shit feels like it.

And this bullshit my twin gave me is only making the waves rolling through my stomach worse.

“Someone can have these.”

Sliding the plate away, I pull out my sticks and tap them against the edge of the table in a solid rhythm.

“Bad night?” I nod to my twin, my sight not leaving the tips of the swinging drumsticks. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Rex scoffs. “Liar.”

Sighing, I still my hands and immediately regret looking over my shoulder at him.

He stares back at me with his brows pinched tight, his bluer eyes too bright.

What he doesn’t have, though, is bags under his eyes as deeply darkened as mine. He doesn’t have a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin. Or lack of color across his cheeks.

It’s no longer like looking in a mirror.

He looks worried in this moment, but otherwise …happy.

And I hate that it’s so potent I can feel it down to my bones almost as if it were my own.

Almost.

My stomach is like lead, my grip on the sticks flexing.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say just low enough for him to hear.

“To be my brother again,” he shoots right back with a tightness taking over his features, and my stomach drops.

“That’s stupid,” I say, though I don’t mean it. Not even a little bit. “I’m always right behind you.”That part I do mean.

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