Page 21 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

“I’m sure I will,” I tell him.

He seems happy, happier than most of the people in this city, clawing their way to the top, wishing to be actors or singers or whatever else they think will bring them fame and fortune.

I wonder what his view is like in Mariposa, if they have a few farm animals and if his wife wakes him up with coffee and pancakes.

Swinging the bag and whistling to myself, I pop in my ear buds and turn on a meditative podcast, something to get me through the three-mile run back home. It’s a sunny day, and I know once I’m about two miles in I’ll be wishing I’d just driven to meet Tyler.

Once I’m through the throng of farmer’s market shoppers, I break into a jog to warm up my muscles, but I stop short after only maybe 50 feet when I see an easel in the window of an art store.

The store is small and the windows are stuffed with things I can’t quite make out.

Alongside the easel is a stack of ribbon spools, arranged in rainbow order, and what looks to be a vintage typewriter, though I probably wouldn’t be able to tell a vintage typewriter from a new one.

A compulsion to buy that easel itches at my fingers, and I realize how I must look standing and staring at it without movement. I’m frozen to the spot, considering the way Hannah might react if I bought it for her.

The picture she drew of me was so good that I can’t help but think that she must have even better art, art she’s taken her time on.

I can see her now, paint splashed across her face, a dot on her nose, her tongue peeking out. I shake my head.She’s not an artist in an indie movie, Chris.

She seemed so upset at me the last time I saw her just a week ago.

I haven’t drummed up the courage to make an appointment and I know I need to.

Every time I start to, a sickness balloons in my throat, and I stop. I know at some point I have to. She’s surely looked at all my financial reports by this time.

Maybe buying her a gift would help. Maybe buying her a gift would make it worse. My palms start to sweat with the effort of thought.

Finally, I give up, and I jog away.

About a block down, I pivot on my heel and run back to the store.

I’ll give it to her when this all blows over. Maybe for her birthday. She won’t ever know how long I agonized over it. To her, it’ll just be a birthday present. Easy.

Why am I making this such a big deal?

And then,Tyler’s going to kick my ass,right before he’s out of my head and his image is replaced with the image of Hannah’s scrunched nose over her sweet smile and a blush crawling up from her chest when she opens it.

Chapter Nine

Hannah

Something about fresh laundry just makes me feel like all’s right with the world.

I stuff my bag into the backseat and turn to hug my mom.

I stayed the entire weekend, telling myself it was for her, but it was for me.

I haven’t been feeling myself lately, been feeling like I’m standing on a cliff and someone could come up behind me and push me off at any moment.

Her hand glides over the space between my shoulder blades, and she makes an ‘mmm’ sound as she squeezes me to her. Her hair, once copper like mine but now fading into a coppery brown, tickles my nose, and I pull away.

“I hope your landlord never installs a washer. Or a dryer,” she tells me, smiling obliviously, patting Lucy’s side before I open the car door for her.

She bounds eagerly into the backseat. She loves the car, loves sitting up before smashing into the back of my seat when I brake. She loves when I open the window for her so she can chew on the rapid air.

I walk around the front of my Toyota Corolla, lightly dragging my fingertips against its greasy exterior.

“Me, too, Mom,” I assure her as I open the door, that odd champagne color that seemed so popular in the early 2000s.

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