And yet here I am, pining over the coach's daughter who wears sandals in winter and does math for fun. I'm a complete and utter disaster, and the worst part is that I can't even bring myself to care.
A sock hits me in the face.
"Q. Are you listening to me?"
I blink, the soft fabric sliding off my nose and into my lap. Milo is standing in front of our shared closet, surrounded by an explosion of clothes that have accumulated over the past thirty minutes. Shirts and slacks and blazers carpet his side of the room, my twin brother currently holding up a navy jacket with an expectant expression that tells me he's been talking for a while. I have no idea what he said.
"What?"
"I asked what says 'I'm sophisticated but also fun but also serious about my intentions but also approachable.'" He waves the blazer for emphasis, the motion sending a shirt sliding off its hanger to join the growing pile on the floor. His side of the room looks like a department store exploded; my side remains untouched, mocking me with its order while my brain refuses to cooperate with basic tasks like reading.
I stare at him. "Clothes."
"You're useless."
He disappears back into the closet, muttering something about emotional support and twin obligations, and more garments come flying out to land on his bed, his desk chair, and the floor. I look down at my textbook, and accept that studying is not happening tonight. Probably wasn't going to happen anyway, not with the auction looming over us.
Milo emerges with the navy blazer paired with khakis, holding the combination up against his chest and examining himself in the mirror mounted on the back of our door. He turns left, then right, then left again, frowning at his reflection like it personally offended him.
"Too preppy?"
"Fine."
He vanishes again, reappearing moments later in a black turtleneck and gray slacks. The turtleneck makes him look like he's about to commit a heist or discuss philosophy at a coffee shop, and he seems to sense this because his frown deepens.
"Too mysterious?"
"Fine."
The third outfit is a fitted burgundy blazer over a black shirt, paired with dark jeans. It's actually a good look, the deep red complementing his complexion, but I'm not about to tell him that because it would only encourage him.
"Too try-hard?"
"Fine."
Milo stops mid-pose and turns to face me fully, his hands dropping to his hips in a stance I recognize from childhood. It's his "I'm about to call you out" stance, and it usually precedes something annoying.
"Q." His voice is flat. "You've said 'fine' to three completely different looks."
"They're all fine."
"You're not even looking."
I glance up from the textbook I wasn't reading, making a point to actually focus on him this time. He's still wearing the burgundy blazer, his hair artfully messy, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and amusement. "I did see them. They're fine."
He picks up the sock from my lap and throws it at me again. I catch it this time, my reflexes at least still functioning, even if my brain has turned to mush.
"What areyouwearing?" he demands, gesturing at me like my outfit is a personal affront.
I look down at myself, then back up at him. Team hoodie, jeans, tennis shoes. The same thing I wear almost every day. "This."
"You're wearing that? To bid four thousand dollars on our woman?"
"Yes."
Milo's face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession: disbelief, horror, resignation, and finally something that looks almost like pain. "The hoodie has a mustard stain."
I follow his gaze downward. There is, in fact, a mustard stain near the hem, probably from lunch three days ago. I stand up without a word, walk to my closet, and pull out an identical team hoodie that doesn't have a mustard stain. This one has a small tear along the sleeve but otherwise it’s fine. I change into it, hang the stained one back up for future laundering, and sit down on my bed.
