Page 13 of The Inevitable Us

I brush my wavy hair out of my face and use the scrunchie on my wrist to pull it back. Sometimes, like now, I wonder if Sawyer watches me through his infamous peripheral vision.

Wanting to change the topic from Rory before Sawyer digs any deeper, I bring up the subject that had been hounding me all day, the one I don’t want to think about. I fidget in my seat for a second before I ask with a playful banter, “How was your lunch? Was the Cuban sandwich better than mine?”

He throws me a smirk, his gaze still not leaving the road. Why won’t he at least look at me! When we pull up to a red light a split second later, relief washes over me when he finally gives me a small sideways glance. “I had coffee and a Florentine egg scramble. They were ok I guess.” Who eats spinach on a date? Maybe he was just meeting up with a friend?

I reward myself with a long sideways look at him. He’s wearing one of his suits, this one dark charcoal. He must be headed to his shift at our house since his work vehicle wasn’t there when I left this morning.

When we pull into the circular driveway, Sawyer parks on the side of the garage, in a special area Dad has paved for his employee parking. Pulling into his usual spot, he looks from underneath his sunglasses and says, “Be a good girl, Rosalie.”

I eye the car door nervously and can’t quite meet his eyes. My hands clumsily reach for the door handle. Once I’m standing in front of the open car door, I look back at Sawyer. “I’m always good. And look where it’s gotten me.” I walk away without looking back for Sawyer’s reaction but hear the car door slamming loudly behind me.

Mom’s in the kitchen, bustling around with a large pot, making spaghetti sauce from scratch. “Want to help me make the sauce for supper tonight, Ro?” she asks as she chops the onion to throw into the pot. “I need more garlic, maybe a green pepper.”

I love helping Mom in the kitchen. I find it soothing. I walk to the large chopping block to take over, smashing a large garlic bulb. Just as I start to pop my earbuds into my ears, Mom comes back from the pantry with two large boxes of pasta shells. “You know, Rosalie, you’ll have to decide what to do soon.”

I groan loudly, ignoring the eye roll Mom gives me. “You can always go to university after culinary school,” she tells me for the thousandth time. “You can switch schools once you know what you want to do if you decide to get your bachelor’s degree.” She throws fresh basil, oregano, and bay leaf into the pot, then countless cans of tomatoes go in with the chopped aromatics until finally putting the lid on the top to simmer.

She isn’t wrong. I do have to decide soon. I’m currently enrolled to attend culinary school in Knoxville for the fall semester. Shortly after graduating, I started to second guess my decision, telling my parents that I’d like a little more time to decide if I should go to college instead. They’d finally allowed me a gap year.

The Coleman children aren’t given access to a trust fund. Well, except Josie, whose biological father set one up for her at birth. Mom and Dad aren’t happy that she has full access to a trust fund at only twenty-two, but they can’t stop it. They’ve made it very clear to us that we have to work to make our way into the world. They’ll pay for whatever education we want and our living expenses while we’re enrolled, but that’s it.

I walk to the large stainless steel fridge and take out two large containers of ricotta, fresh mozzarella, and a block of parmesan to shred. “I’m still thinking about culinary school. I don’t want to take regular college classes because if I transfer to a culinary school, they might not count towards my degree.”

My parents had mentioned culinary school repeatedly during the last year while I was in my gap year. We’d gone to tour the one I’m currently enrolled in six months ago. While they said it was my decision, ultimately, I’d decided on my education because I was being pressured, not from any desire to become the next Gordon Ramsay.

There are smaller, less respected culinary schools closer, but not ones that will sharpen my skills the way this one can. If I move three hours away, I’ll have to leave Sawyer. I’m not sure I’m ready to do that.

The decision is more complicated than simply tuition and signing up for a dorm. We’ve had enough run-ins with weirdos over the years that my parents are cautious about our living accommodations. A large stack of real estate listings in secure buildings is printed in my Dad’s office, waiting for me to pick. And I need to pick, very soon. My parents keep our pictures out of the press enough that I can move around freely, hardly ever recognized, but still, it’s best to be cautious.

“You have a month until classes start. You can sit out this semester if you want to go to the university, but you need to decide if you don’t want to go to Knoxville. I think the issue is you don’t really want to leave home. Eventually, you have to grow up. Your home will always be here,” Mom says pointedly while I start to grate the parmesan.

She gives me one of her raised eyebrow Mom looks before she walks down the hall to Rory’s bedroom, likely to have a similar conversation. My refusal to make final educational plans and Rory refusing to enroll in any school is a new concern for my parents. Josie and Nate had known what they wanted to do professionally since high school. Rory says he finds classrooms depressing and prefers to work on cars but refuses to attend a technical college to get any sort of a certification. My parents were ok with him not getting a four-year degree, but the lack of job training worries them.

Josie attended the Yale School of Music and Nate plays football, his only issue was which university to commit to. I’m not as confident as they are about my career path.

But none of this matters because it’s leaving Sawyer that is the hang-up for me. I may not know what I want to do in my life as far as a job yet, but I know I don’t want to live without our tiny moments together.

A few minutes pass, and Mom storms back into the kitchen, her hands on her hips as she watches me top the pan with foil. “Your brother....”

“What did Rory do now?” Dad asks in an annoyed tone as he walks into the kitchen from the garage.

Mom looks at Dad with a scowl. “He was buying racing seats for his car online.”

My head shoots up, and Dad’s face turns dark. “After we told him no?”

Oh, how stupid was Rory? There’s no way our parents would allow him to do that. The cars are theirs, and we’re just allowed to drive them.

“Umm, I have supper taken care of if you need to go talk to Rory,” I say sweetly to them.

A good twin would try to soothe my parents’ anger, but this one was tired of her brother’s nonsense. My parents head down the hall, and I smile, enjoying seeing him in trouble with our parents. Maybe they’ll be too busy worrying about Rory to think about me.

Myparentsinsisteveryoneat home have supper together at the table. When the food’s done, I call everyone to the table for the stuffed shells and salad for a dead silent dinner. Dad glares daggers at Rory the entire time, only speaking to bark at him once to put his phone away. Rory doesn’t glance up from his plate.

After supper, Dad’s assistant walks into the kitchen, pulling Mom and Dad into the office for a bit. We didn’t see as much of Laurel as we used to before Dad retired from touring. There must be something going on for her to be in the house.

Shrugging it off, I eye all the still warm extra shells and start to pack them away. I look towards the garage entrance in the kitchen, so close to Sawyer but so far away. Eyeing the food, I gather the pans, still warm from the oven, two paper plates, and a serving spoon to bring upstairs.

Rodrigo answers my knock, letting me in once he sees the plates of food. “Bringing us food again, Rosalie?”

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