Page 7 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

The image of Chris’ awe when he viewed the portrait I drew of him pops into my head.

I quickly realize that I would gladly draw a picture of him every day if I could bring out that same look in his eyes.

“You’re so focused,” a man’s voice says next to me, and I jerk in surprise.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I swivel my head to the man next to me -– a lanky, blonde man with an easy smile and brown eyes.

“That’s okay,” I respond quickly, glancing over at the man’s dog, a golden doodle sitting calmly and waiting for him to throw a tennis ball. I look back up at the man.

“Sorry I jumped. You just startled me.”

He laughs a little. “Like I said, you were focused.”

He throws the ball hard, and his dog instantly launches into a high-speed run.

“I’m Scott, by the way.” He holds out his hand to shake mine. “Better shake my hand now before it’s covered in dog drool.”

We shake hands, and I say quietly, “Hannah” before I retreat back into myself and my world, hunching back over my canvas.

I can feel his energy shift as he realizes we aren’t going to be talking, and I feel that familiar shame creep into my cheeks, the blood heating my face the way it’s always done when men talk to me.

I’ve never felt capable of having a comfortable conversation with any man, especially not men that I can tell find me attractive.

It’s like being stuffed under a pile of blankets. I just can’t seem to get comfortable. I feel hot, sweaty, and heavy. Stifled.

Something in me shuts down when confronted with my own sexuality.

I can barely put on a bathing suit without cringing. Before the energy of Scott next to me, quietly tossing the tennis ball for his dog over and over, becomes too much, I stick my still mostly-blank canvas into my bag and stand up.

“Lucy! ‘mere, girl!” I call and force my shaking hands to steady enough to clip her leash on.

“Hey,” Scott says, “I’m sorry if I messed up your moment or something. I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

His smile is crooked and it honestly reads to me like the smile of someone who hopes I’ll tell him that he has it all wrong, that I’ve got a hair appointment I forgot about or a meeting I need to get to, but instead I shrug with one shoulder and half a smile and slip out of the park, telling Lucy what a good girl she is all the way back to the office.

I unlock the door again and let Lucy off the leash.

She scuttles to her water bowl instantly, and I follow her to the small kitchen to scrounge for some snacks, settling on a small bowl of nuts, chips and a couple of string cheeses.

Living out of the office has its pros and cons, of course.

Sometimes a friend will come over and balk at the lack of a stovetop, but the reality is that I can’t remember ever using a stovetop more than once or twice a year, anyway. I never really learned to cook, aside from eggs, and even those I usually manage to burn.

I go into the back office, which I’ve set up as my bedroom, putting my foot firmly on the arm of the couch, so I can yank on the hide-a-bed as hard as I can to pull it fully out.

The stiff metal squeals under my fist before finally giving way and stiffly unfolding in sections.

I slick my sweaty hair back and pull it into a low ponytail before folding my legs underneath me and collapsing onto the bumpy mattress.

I pull out my canvas and try to finish the sketch I started of Lucy, but my mind wanders as I begin to draw her. I know it would stress out my family to know I live here in back of the office.

I haven’t told any of them, not even Tyler. I really don’t want to be nagged about it.

They think I have a quaint little apartment out in Valencia, and the only reason no one comes to visit me there is because Mom and Dad have a nice large home where we can all gather when we get together.

I go over my rehearsed answer should anyone find out the truth.

No, it’s not weird, and I’m not in debt. Oh, my God. Okay, well, I’m in some debt, but no more than the average American, certainly less than the average Californian, so don’t be so dramatic.

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