I drop my head back, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t meet my sister’s eyes and tell her no. “Let’s not think about it now. There’s still time.”
“I dunno, Wes—”
“Okay,” I say, cutting her off before she can steamroll me into making the decision to sell this house. Flattening my palms on the cool countertop, I say, “I’ll tell you what’s been going on with me. But you can’t tell anyone.”
“Obviously,” she says, annoyed. “Twin Code.”
I sip my coffee. Clean my lenses. “I slept with my boss.”
The screech I was expecting, the one that I closed my eyes for and leaned away from, never comes. I peek over at her, opening first one then the other eye. Amy chews on a piece of toast, staring at the hood fan across from us.
“It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be,” she muses. “On the one hand.” She tips her head to the side. “I’m going to have to hear about your sex life, which is gross.”
She turns her head to the other side. “On the other hand.” She throws her toast down, missing her plate, and spins the stool to face me. “That is the craziest thing you have ever done in your entire lifeohmygodwhat were you thinking?!” she yells, her voice quickly reaching screech levels.
“Amy.” I place my hands on her shoulders. “My ears.”
She throws her hands in the air. “Who cares! I thought you hated her? I thought she hated you? Are you going to get fired? Is she?”
I hook my index finger around her coffee mug, pulling it out of reach of her flailing arms. “I’ll tell you everything but you need tolisten.”
She takes a deep breath, pulls her mug back toward her, and leans against the counter. “Fine. I’ll listen.” She holds her hand out to me. “Tell me.”
I gloss over the details but tell her about the kiss and then what happened on Friday night: Richard’s behavior and the way Corrine seemed unwound and how we both ended up undressed, partly.
My sister’s mouth hangs open. “Are you inlovewith her?”
“What? No!” I yell. A voice, which does not belong to me nor do I know where it came from, whispers in my ear,but maybe?
“No,” I say again, as much to Amy as myself. It would be just like me to fall for a woman as unattainable and complicated as Corrine Blunt. I poke a tomato slice back into my sandwich. “She said...she said she regrets it. That it was a mistake.”
The hurt is mostly gone. I’m resigned to it now. Even if I wanted to do something about it, what could I do? Beg? Not a great look. She’s already a wildly successful executive and I’m an intern with little to no experience. She’d be risking her career for me. We both would.
Amy makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Well,she’sa mistake. You’re not a mistake, Wes. You need to tell her that.”
Her words—and the expectation that I hadn’t already said exactly that—send me sitting back on my stool again. “I did tell her that, Amy,” I say quietly.
“Look at you, little bro.” She hops off the stool, taking her plate to the sink. Her sandwich is untouched. “Standing up for yourself.”
I’m sure she means it to be a compliment, but I’ve been standing up for myself for a while now. Maybe I’m not a crusader like Amy, willing to tell anyone and everyone exactly what she thinks, but going into work every day felt like standing up for myself, and confronting Amy over pizza last week felt like it, too.
The words to say just that—to stand up for myself once more—ram against the back of my teeth. Amy’s shoulders are still tight as she scrapes her sandwich into the garbage, her smile a thin line when she turns back to me. Amy and I have been on the same page our whole lives but right now it feels like we’re writing completely different books.
Instead I say, “Stop calling me your little bro. You’re only older than me by two minutes.”
The edges of her smile relax a little bit. She comes around the island, wrapping her arms around my chest and squeezing. I give a tug on her wrist.
“Stop being so tall. God,” she says with mock outrage. I smile into my coffee mug.
“How did our poor mother house you for nine months? I’m surprised you didn’t absorb me for my resources,” she says. “I’ve got to clean upstairs.” She spins toward me. “Have you seen my phone?”
“It’s in the bathroom. Thanks for breakfast.” I smile. “Love you, Shamey.”
“Don’t call me that!” she yells, her feet pounding up the stairs.
My phone dings a message in my pocket but I clean up the kitchen first, taking the time to wipe down all the counters with Mom’s favorite lemon-scented cleaner and fill up the dishwasher. Leaning against the counter, I stop with my mug of now-cold coffee halfway to my mouth when I see who the text is from.
Corrine:Wesley. If it’s not too forward of me would it be possible for us to meet up at some point today? If you don’t feel comfortable I understand.
