Page 24 of Can't Always Get What You Want

We might butt heads constantly, but underneath the chirps and the chaos, he’s still my brother. Still the guy who used to walk me home from middle school with his hockey stick slung over one shoulder like a knight with a sword. Still the guy who tried to fight my eighth-grade boyfriend for kissing me on the school’s tennis courts during a football game.

“Excuse me?” I knew he was going to ask about my hair. Obviously—it’s a drastic change and everyone is commenting on it.

What makes me think my twin wouldn’t?

Gio grins, pointing his phone at the QR code on our table and orders food while he roasts me. “You only make changes when you’re bored—or freaked out about something. You got bangs after Dylan ghosted you sophomore year. Switched majors after that one professor called you out in class for sleeping through most of it. And now you go from blonde to brown? It’s sus.”

I run a hand through the newly dark strands, trying to act casual. “It’s called reinvention.”

His hands go in the air. “Hey. I didn’t say I hated it—I’m just asking if there’s a reason.”

“I just wanted a change,” I say, tone breezy even though my pulse is sprinting.

“You hate change.”

He’s only half correct.

I hate change within reason, with plenty of notice.

“Does this have anything to do with their anniversary coming up?”

Their anniversary.

Mom and dad’s.

My throat tightens at the way he says it—soft, careful, like the words might break something if he’s not gentle. We never say “the day they died.” We decided to celebrate their wedding anniversary instead, because it’s kinder to us. We decided years ago, curled up on the living room floor with our lives freshly cracked open—that we’d celebrate the years they were together.

Not the day everything ended.

We’ve done it every year since. Sometimes with pancakes. Sometimes with silence. Once with a trip to the lake where they got engaged. It’s always a bit sad and weird and perfect in that awful, sacred way grief can be.

But this year…

This year, Gio has apartner. A baby. Afamilythat depends on him now.

And I’m trying not to resent that.

I really, really am.

“I don’t know,” I admit, reaching to touch the top layer of my hair. “Maybe. It just feels… like everything’s changing lately and I don’t feel quite like myself anymore.”

He watches me for a beat, face unreadable. Then nods, just once, like he gets it. Because of course he does. He’s the only other person whocould.

But that doesn’t make it easier because I don’t say what I’m really thinking: that I miss our parents in ways I don’t know how to talk about anymore.

That I missus—him and I—the way we used to be before life started breaking us into separate pieces.

That I went out on a date with his teammate out of spite, because he’s always telling me what I can and cannot do as if he were…well. Our father.

Protective to a fault. Always assuming he knows what’s best. Always trying to steer me away from risk—especially when itlooks like a six-foot-something forward with a crooked grin and a reputation for scoring on and off the ice.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and force a smile. “Truffle fries sound good—you should add those to the order if you already haven’t.”

He nods. “Done.” Pushes the condiment basket to the center of the table and steals a napkin. Fiddles with it the same way I do when I’m nervous. “Well it looks good. I like it.”

I touch my hair again. “Thanks.”

“What else is new?” My brother wants to know. “You said you were going to get back on the dating apps. Any luck?”

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