“Two minutes,” I remind her. “Two minutes does not constitute ‘little brother.’”
“Look, Boen,” she stresses my name. “I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing and I can take care of myself.”
I wish I could argue with her. I wish I could come up with a handful of situations where Bexley has not taken care of herself and did not know better, but I can’t. The fact is that my sister has pulled me over my own share of speed bumps. Even when she was going through the worst time in her life, Bexley helped me get through mine.
It still doesn’t mean I have to be happy about this.
“Maybe you should think about doing something like this yourself?” she suggests.
“This is not about me.”
“I’d rather it be about you than listen to you lecture me. I’m your sister, not one of your students, Bo, and I really want to do this. Be happy for me.”
That’s the problem with sisters, especially twin sisters. I only want her to be happy. “Who is this guy that will make you disrupt your life?” I grumble.
“Grayson Grant,” Bexley announces like I should know who she’s talking about. I don’t. I only have a vague knowledge of The Suitor in general because I once went on a date with a woman who talked about it ad nauseam for the whole evening. “He used to be a baseball player. He’s been on the show before.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
Bexley’s mouth droops with disappointment. My sister is the more outgoing of us, the more adventurous. She takes what she wants from life while I sit back and wait. I may not agree with her at times, but the twin bond means I’ll always support her.
“So when do you find out if you make the show?” The resignation in my voice is as noticeable as the smell of fish cooking in my semi-detached house. Of course when she called, Bex asked if I’d eaten that night, which I hadn’t. Therefore, I’m making fish tacos at ten o’clock.
“Next week.” Bex gives a little shimmy of excitement which makes the bun on top of her head bobble alarmingly. Bexley shares my hair and eye colour, but that’s about it.
“You know you’ll be picked.”
“I don’t, but thanks for the encouragement.”
“Who in their right mind wouldn’t think you’re a perfect fit?” I ask morosely, flipping the piece of tilapia, taking on colour in the frying pan. I enjoy cooking but never think of doing it as often as I should, which Bexley well knows.
Like tonight; I had come home from school and dove into marking assignments for my AP Chemistry class when part of my doctorate thesis clicked into place, and so then I spent over two—four—hours trying to come up with the proper formula and the dinner hour came and went. I didn’t even notice the rumbling in my stomach until Bex asked if I’d eaten.
I hear sharp bark comes from outside and my head whips around to the window. “What’s wrong?” Bexley asks.
“I think there’s a dog outside.”
“That’s okay, Bo, because it’soutside—”
There’s a dog out there. Just the simple bark is a red flag to my hypothalamus, sending a spurt of corticotropic-releasing hormone which sets off the cortisol, and instantly I’m in fight-or-flight mode.
I know the chemistry of fear.
“Boen.” Bexley’s words come fast and furious. “It’s outside and you’re inside, so nothing to worry about. It was twenty-five years ago—”
“Twenty-three years and four months. I’ve got to go. See you Sunday, love you, bye.” Phone still in hand, Bexley’s news disappears from my mind as I storm to the living room window just in time to see a tail poking out from the bushes in front of the house.
There’s a dog in my bushes.
That’s too close. It’s too close to my house, too close to me. Not only that, but this dog will no doubt urinate, or worse, excrete near my house, which means my bushes will have a dog smell which will attract other dogs to the area so my little garden with the unknown bushes will soon be a haven for four-legged creatures of the neighbourhood.
I don’t like dogs.
Heart racing from the cortisol pumping through my body, I watch from behind the safety of the window as the dog backs out of the bushes and scampers around my yard like it doesn’t have a care in the world. Which it probably doesn’t, but that’s not fair to me since now I have many cares about this animal on my lawn, in my bushes—
There’s someone out there with it.
A figure in black appears, walking across my grass that doesn’t belong to them. Before I can remember to do my calming breaths or mindfulness exercises, I bang on the window and crank it open. “What are you doing out there?” I shout through the screen.
