I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I repeat, gesturing toward the linen closet behind her. She backs up, not understanding what I mean. “Can I just—”
“God, I’m so sorry.” She backs into the closet and gestures for me to pass.
This is getting us nowhere. I wrap my hand around her upper arm and move her gently aside. Her gasp at the contact echoes my own. Her skin is warm and smooth. My thumb traces her bicep without thinking—her muscle definition is impressive.
What am I doing? I glance up, bracing for horror or disgust at my touch.
Instead, her eyes are locked on my chest. She seems to notice my excellent muscle definition too.
“I do a lot of climbing,” I find myself sheepishly answering the question I see in her head tilt as she studies me.
“You climb?”
Her hopeful, admiring gaze finally darts up to meet mine, and that’s all it takes. A sharp zing like electricity, followed by the slow, heady feeling of drowning in sweet, syrupy molasses. It’s so bittersweetly nostalgic and surprisingly lovely, like finding a forgotten birthday card from a long-gone loved one in the pocket of a coat I haven’t worn in years.
And that—more than the strange, unlikely serendipity of us reuniting—makes this feel like fate. Knowing our history, it’s probably the kind of fate that ends like a Greek tragedy, but still.
“Mostly in a cave, yeah,” I say, my voice low with unexpected emotion. “There’s this massive wall we rappel down for ourtrickier route. I like to climb it when I’m off the clock.”
“Wow! I’ve never attempted caving. But ever since I saw that one documentary about Mammoth Cave I’ve been—”
“You guys ready to go already—oh.” Seth pauses at the end of the hallway.
Sierra and I step away from each other. “Bathroom’s there,” I say pointlessly, since she’s already reaching for the doorknob. I open the linen closet and pretend to study my washcloth options until I hear the bathroom lock click.
Seth gives me a look before retreating to his room. Sometimes I hate how well my twin knows me.
Five
Sierra
Chaos Burger lives up to its name; the place is a cacophony of yelling servers and tourists trying to communicate over the heavy bass EDM blasting through the speakers. Jackson Pollock–style neon art splatters up toward the tall ceiling—if you can call open ductwork a “ceiling.”
It’s impossible not to feel off-kilter. I have no idea where the fuck I am.
Tourists didn’t come to Sagebrush. There was nothing to cometo. The kindest description of Sagebrush I’ve ever received—before I wised up and stopped telling people where I originate from—is that it’s a dusty, dying, near-ghost town, where meth addicts, hippies too impoverished to make it in Sedona, rugged ranchers, and stubborn miner descendants squat in what can loosely be called livable conditions.
It isn’t true. Well, not entirely true—thatdoes roughly describe the majority of our constituents. And most people could barely afford their groceries, much less anything else. But there are good people here, the kind who share what they have, even if they have very little. I used to tell Logan all the time: it isn’t the people, it’s the circumstances. If someone somehow could inject some hope and cash into this hardy place, it could come back and thrive.
Someone must have done that.
At any rate, right in front of me is this seemingly successful restaurant that looks like it belongs in downtown Scottsdale or Tempe, swarming with out-of-towners. I naively assumed, since Logan said it’s for tourists, that it was outside of Sagebrush. Nope. This place is practically down the street from their house.
“Let’s grab a table outside,” Logan says, gesturing toward the large deck.
A deck! Sagebrush has a restaurant with a deck! Although I rarely imagined I’d return here, I certainly never dreamed up anything as luxurious as a restaurant with a deck.
Logan places a hand on my back, the only way to get my attention in this loud environment. I’m pulled out of my thoughts by his gentle touch as he steers me gently through the restaurant. The contact is no less unexpected than earlier in the hallway, and yet, like before, I can’t bring myself to extract myself from it.
There’s a reason everyone is inside and not outside. While the days in March are already warm enough for t-shirts and shorts, nights in the Arizona desert grow cold. One minute I’m suppressing a shiver, the next a heavy, warm jacket drops over my shoulders. I turn my head and poke my nose against the collar of Logan’s jacket. It smells just like he always usedto smell—some sea-salt-scented shampoo and warm male. It’s strangely comforting.
“Thanks, Logan,” I say cautiously. “But I—”
Seth is frowning. “Why don’t you go put in the order, bro?”
“I thought this was supposed to be your treat?” Logan says.
They’re doing that irritating twin thing they used to do all the time when we were kids, where they communicate without words.
