Page 18 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

“Okay, but you can’t use the dryer,” she teases, and I sigh heavily as I stand and walk to the back to gather my clothes.

“I’m kidding. I’ll be home a little later. You can come on over now. God knows with that LA traffic, you won’t be here until after dinner.”

She’s right, so I go to the kitchen and grab a couple of granola bars for a snack in case the drive ends up feeling more like a road trip.

I take Lucy out to go to do her business and then pour out some kibble for her. I tell her to wait until dinner time so she’s not hungry later, but she doesn’t listen. Her ears twitch as she scarfs down her food.

Before I drive away, I change my mind and go back inside to bring Lucy along. If I know my mother, she’ll beg me to stay, and if I know myself, I’ll want to.

When I arrive at my mom’s house, I feel that familiar pang of resentment for the two story house and the big yard; all things that feel somewhat wasted on them but that I would have really appreciated as a kid.

She’s sitting in the porch swing with my dad. In his hand is a newspaper; in hers, a book that looks to be some kind of smut.

It still embarrasses me how openly she reads that stuff, but it makes her happy. Whenever I protest, she always tells me, “Don’t be such a prude, Hannah, everyone reads this stuff. No one cares.”

I can’t tell which one of us is right. Maybe I really am a prude and, once I lose my virginity, I might actually have a change of heart.

“There’s my baby!” My mom waves so hard the bench starts to swing left to right instead of forward and back. My dad grips the wooden arm and shoots her an enamored glance before returning to his paper with a subtle smile.

I start to walk toward her, but she yells, “Oh, and there’s Hannah!” as Lucy runs up to her.

I roll my eyes at the corny joke, and she says, “Now, don’t be coy – go get your laundry, dear thing.”

Caught, I turn back and go get the bag. She jumps to her feet, and the chain on her side of the swing trembles with the weight displacement. “You should really just make a standing appointment.”

I smile gratefully as she takes the bag from me and heads for the front door.

“I’ll add you to a shared Google calendar,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

“Well, I don’t know why you’re saying it like a joke. That could work.”

She stops expectantly at the door and nods at it. “Finally, thank you. Who raised you?” she asks sarcastically when I open it for her.

“I don’t know, but I hear she’s a real piece of work.”

“Watch your mouth now,” she laughs as she leads me to the laundry room.

I’m so jealous of it. It has a folding ironing board that collapses into the wall and a shelf above the appliances for laundry detergent and other supplies. Her cleaning supplies hang on the wall and there’s a whiteboard where she’s written who’s been doing the laundry.

It brings a smile to my lips that my dad has done it the last three times.

“Seriously, when is that no-good landlord of yours going to give you a washing machine and dryer?’

“Probably never, Mom,” I say honestly as I dump my clothes into the machine without sorting. I know you’re supposed to, but I did it once and didn’t notice a difference. I’m a numbers girl. No difference, no change for me.

I used to feel little twinges of guilt when my mom mentioned my imaginary apartment landlord, but we’ve all basically repeated the lie into existence.

My fictitious landlord is a man named John who has long brown hair and a two-year-old daughter named Ruby. He’s a chatterbox who often drops in and keeps me from my work. He’s nice enough but cheap. I swear I could draw him if I needed to. I might, just for the challenge.

“Come sit with me and your dad.”

“Is there room?”

“Sure, you don’t mind being squeezed together, do you? Like old times?”

She’s referring to when we shared a bed because we surely never had a porch swing. Or a porch.

We used to have two rooms in our apartment, and my brother got his own because he was a growing boy who needed privacy. When he moved out, I got his room.

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