“I can’t believe you’re eating that soup at midnight,” I say, watching Marcus demolish the last of Nate’s soup on my couch. “And I really can’t believe you’re actually defending him now. You were ready to castrate him the moment you stepped off the plane in Burlington.”
“Well, if Nate’s mom’s pastries weren’t so damn good, I wouldn’t have been too full to eat this earlier,” Marcus says between spoonfuls. “And besides, that was before I met him and saw how he looks at you.”
I think about how Nate showed up at the festival tonight, his eyes full of regret and longing. How my heart skipped when I saw him standing there, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain in a way I’ve never seen him before. Despite everything, seeing him made my whole body feel lighter, like coming up for air after being underwater too long.
Marcus licks his spoon clean. “And before he gave us this soup that tastes like grandmothers and blankets.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, but I can’t help the warmth spreading through my chest at his words.
“I’m right,” Marcus insists. “And you know it.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m going to bed.”
But lying in bed, I can’t stop thinking about Nate. About how safe I feel in his arms. About our first kiss in the snow, the way he’d hold my hand while we walked through town, how he’d show up at the coffee shop just to see me smile.
Should I let one mistake erase all of that?
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need to talk to Tate and Tristan. Get answers to the questions that have haunted me since I found out.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and dial Tate’s number.
“Hello?” His voice is hesitant, hopeful.
“I’ll hear you out,” I say quickly, my heart racing as I pace my bedroom. “But on my terms. Come to the coffee shop tomorrow morning, an hour before opening. Just you and Tristan.”
There’s a pause. “We’ll be there.”
I spend the next few hours tossing and turning in bed, my mind too full of questions to sleep. Around three a.m., I give up and head to the kitchen, careful not to wake Marcus, who’s sprawled across my couch. I’m thankful to past Caspian for buying one that turns into a bed, but I really need to turn that spare room into an actual bedroom.
The familiar routine of measuring flour and sugar helps calm my racing thoughts. By the time the sun starts peeking through my kitchen window, I’ve made three batches of cookies, two loaves of bread, and enough muffins to feed half of Maplewood. Stress baking has always been my go-to coping mechanism.
A few hours later, my hands shake as I juggle boxes of stress-baked goods from my car. True to their word, the twins are waiting outside Special Blend. Alone. It’s still strange seeing two people who look so much alike, knowing I share DNA with them.
“Let us help you with those,” Tate offers, both brothers already moving forward.
“Thanks,” I manage, handing over some of the boxes. It’s strange having them here, being helpful, looking so alike yet distinct in their movements.
“You can drop them on the counter,” I say, going around the counter and placing the box I’m holding by the coffee maker. “Coffee?”
They both nod when I ask if they want their usual—an Americano for Tate and a vanilla latte for Tristan. I busy myself with the familiar routine of brewing, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“How are Ben and Indy? And the kids?” I ask, trying to delay the inevitable conversation.
“We left before the kids were up,” Tristan says. “Ben and Indy were already on their third cup of coffee. They’re probably as nervous about this meeting as we are.”
“We’re sorry,” Tate says as I set their cups down. “For ambushing you like that. We tried to find the right way to tell you, but we kept chickening out and letting Ben and Indy take over.” He looks down at his coffee. “We’re…kind of out of practice at this brother business.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting down with my own coffee.
The twins exchange a look that seems to hold years of shared pain. “When our parents divorced,” Tate explains, “they couldn’t agree on custody arrangements. So they split us up. Tristan stayed with Mom, and I moved to Boston with Dad.”
My mouth drops open. “They separated twins? Who does that?”
“Our parents,” Tristan says grimly. “We’d see each other during school vacations, alternating between Mom and Dad, but…”
“We drifted apart,” Tate continues. “Became almost like strangers. Tristan was the one who reached out when he got engaged. I was…different then. Bitter. Career-focused. I’d distanced myself from Dad, but looking back, I was becoming just like him without realizing it.” His face softens. “Meeting Indy, reconnecting with Tristan—it changed everything. Showed me what really matters in life.”
I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, trying to process this. “How can you be sure I’m your brother? It could be a coincidence. Maybe Mom and your dad were just in a relationship, and he gave her money because he liked her, or…”
