“It’s tough, but I have to think about the bigger picture,” Penelope was saying. “I have to think about my family, the kids. I mean, we got so close with your last few books. So close. And I’m really proud of the work we did together. I hope you know that.”
Amelie could barely hear her own voice when she said, “I do.” But did she? She felt like she didn’t know anything!
Most of all, she wanted to ask her agent why she was just telling her this now? Amelie had worked tirelessly on this newest draft, thinking Penelope wanted it ASAP. But now, she wasn’teven going to read it? She probably hadn’t even opened the document!
Amelie half blacked out before they hung up. She mumbled, “Merry Christmas,” wondering, as she said it, if Penelope would ever come back to the writing world, if she’d ever try to get Amelie back. But their conversation had an air of finality to it.
Amelie felt doomed.
She went inside and poured herself another finger of whiskey. She deserved it.
But Amelie couldn’t believe this. She’d signed with Penelope more than three years ago and thought her career would be booming right now. She’d imagined her books in bookstores, maybe a Netflix adaptation on the horizon. She’d imagined interviews and book tours. She hadn’t pictured herself alone in a cabin in Big Sur, her agent abandoning her, her life on pause.
Christmas was three weeks away. Would she spend it here in the cabin, watching movies, waiting for time to pass?
And what was the point of writing anymore, anyway? She was agent-less. She had nothing.
That night, when Amelie drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of Willa.
In the dream, Amelie and Willa were in Big Sur together, screaming at one another without understanding what the other was saying. It was like neither of them spoke English anymore, nor the other’s language. Willa’s face was blotchy with anger, and Amelie’s body was shaking.
When Amelie woke up, she was covered in sweat. It was three thirty in the morning. She got up and went to the fridge to pour herself a glass of lemon water. She wondered if the whiskey had caused her strange dream, then remembered the call with Penelope, when she learned she didn’t have an agent anymore. It crashed in on her. She sat at the edge of a kitchen chair and sipped her water, gazing at the black forest out the window.
She hadn’t had a Willa dream in months.
Realizing she didn’t have her phone, Amelie searched the cabin, throwing blankets and pillows to the side until she found it between the cushions on the sofa. She lit it up, hoping to distract herself with something until she found her way back to sleep. Cat videos. Hair tutorials. Whatever.
But what she saw on the screen made her panic.
She had three missed calls from Willa and two text messages.
WILLA: Where in the world are you, even?
WILLA: Call me.
Amelie’s chest and cheeks filled with sweat. Gripping her phone, she went back onto the porch and sat in the chill. She kept checking to make sure the messages and calls were real.
Her dream now felt like a sign. Like she knew Willa needed to talk to her. She remembered back in elementary and high school, when they’d felt such a strong connection to one another that they often hadn’t needed to talk to know what the other was thinking. Other kids on the island didn’t question it. They called it their twin thing.
Over the years, Amelie had put aside her ideas about twin connections. She and Willa were too different now. Their lives had nothing in common.
Why had Willa reached out? Amelie searched her mind for answers. Was there something wrong with their family? Was someone sick? Willa and Amelie were approaching forty, which meant that everyone else was much, much older, so anything was possible. Her pulse quickened, and tears sprang to her eyes. But still, she could do nothing. She felt frozen.
For the first time in a few years, Amelie googled her sister’s name: Willa Caraway. The search results were all about Willa’s work in advertising, the commercials she’d directed, and the adcopy she’d written. She had an official-looking website, featuring a glossy and very current photograph. The picture looked like Amelie, of course—but like Amelie if she’d gone into the corporate world and bought herself a bunch of lady suits. Amelie couldn’t remember the last time she’d blow-dried her hair or shaved her legs. Willa would be horrified at the state of Amelie’s eyebrows.
How Amelie missed her sister!
Amelie darkened her phone and closed her eyes. It was four thirty, and she knew that sleep wouldn’t find her again.
Out of nowhere, she remembered Willa on the last day.
They were on the ferry, leaving Mackinac Island forever. They hadn’t spoken all morning and were sick to their stomachs, their hands wrapped around the railing, watching their island get smaller and smaller on the massive lake.
Willa had said, “I’m going to do everything I can to put this behind me. I don’t want this to haunt me forever. I don’t want to have to think about it every single day of my life.”
Amelie’s eyes had smarted. She’d wanted to say,What do you mean? We’ll never be able to get away from this. This is our identity now.
Back then, Willa and Amelie had had to scramble and create dreams for themselves, dreams that had nothing to do with Mackinac Island. Amelie had decided to become a writer. Novels, screenplays, whatever. She’d do it all, as long as it was creative. And Willa had mentioned directing, making films.
