Someone letSenator Bracehurst’s wife loose on the margarita bar, and now her left tit is falling out of her dress. This has to be a punishment of some kind. My fathers are probably somewhere in a corner laughing their asses off.
Worse, the wolves are at the door—mostly social media influencers with their phones at the ready—and they would love that kind of scoop on my very first foray into big-time social justice work. Not to mention that one creepy guy with the orange bow tie.
Shudder.
He’s been to every public event I’ve participated in this year, and there’s something about the way he stares at me that I don’t like. Having spent nearly every day of the last six months planning this damned thing, I don’t have time for his nonsense. Cursing under my breath, I refocus and slip off my jacket, making my way over to the problem of the moment.
“Mrs. Bracehurst, you look chilled. Here, take my jacket,” I say, slipping it onto her shoulders.
Maya, my twin and saving grace, floats over and makes abrief adjustment, scooping Mrs. Bracehurst back into her dress before sliding in next to me.
“Oh, darling, call me Cordelia,” the older woman purrs, floating her gold-tipped manicure over my tie.
Maya coughs, covering her laugh, and I give the now-decent Mrs. Bracehurst a small bow.
“Of course, Cordelia. Thank you so much for coming tonight. Your support for Austin’s veteran groups is so appreciated.”
“There’s more charity where that came from,” she says, sending me a wink.
I bow again, then link elbows with Maya and drag her away before she loses it in front of our largest donor.
“Stop it,” I hiss, trying not to laugh myself. “I’m never getting that jacket back.”
“Honestly, the piercing was a surprise,” she says dryly, causing me to break.
“You are theworst.”
“And by worst, you meant thebest.” She tightens her arm around mine, pulling me in close enough to whisper, “By the way, did you see your biggest fan is here tonight?”
I follow her line of sight and see Orange Bow Tie in the corner, sipping a drink, his eyes trained on me as if there’s no one else in the ballroom.Ugh.
“Yeah, well, we need to check out the attendee list because if I end up with my spleen in a jar somewhere, his name goes to the top of the list.”
She snorts. “Fear not, broseph. If OBT gets you, I’ll make it my life’s mission to avenge you and your poor spleen.”
“Oh shut up,” I complain, nudging her head with mine.
There’s no way I’d try to make it through tonight without my sister. Maya’s a straight-up badass, not to mention the youngest surgical resident in the state of Texas, and we just get each other. We both blew through school at super young ages,but she’sstudy smart, and I’m what Baba callsether smart, and together, we’re pretty dangerous.
Maya can top-sheet almost any subject you put in front of her, and fast. I, on the other hand, tend to justknowthings. New-to-me concepts, people’s behavioral patterns, random insights—like my brain skips straight from A to Z without stopping at the steps between.
It’s a neat trick…until I run into something thatisn’tintuitive. Then I’m not just a slow learner, but I have to practically reverse-engineer the whole thing before it makes sense. Take math, for instance. Anything past geometry can go fuck itself.
You know, for someone who gets called smart a lot—especially after starting college at fifteen and double majoring in Applied Neuroethics and Immersive Communication Design—I can be stunningly dense sometimes.
It’s kind of mortifying, really. I come across as either psychic or like I shouldn’t be left unsupervised. No in-between. Monetizing social media and knowing exactly what to post to build a following? Easy. Introduction to calculus or spotting a “friend” with an agenda? I’m a babe in the woods.
I passed my calculus pre-req exam even though I didn’t understand any of it until the day before. Why I picked a major that required something calledMathematics and Machine Learning, I have no idea.
Maybe I’m hardheaded.
Maybe I like the challenge.
The world may never know.
Laying her head on my shoulder, Maya reaches up and tugs on my slightly overgrown hair. “Speaking of mildly obsessed, aren’t you overdue for a visit with your Hottie McHottie barber?”
I run my fingers through my hair, self-conscious. “He didn’t have an opening until tomorrow.”
