I laugh at the old joke. People can tell us apart just fine, since we’re not identical. But it became a funny thing Jude—our dad—would say when we were kids. “They’re twins,” he’d tell people with a straight face. “Bet you can’t tell them apart!”
“How are you?” Jemma merges into traffic, hands steady despite the icy roads.
“I’m...” Immediately, Oliver enters my thoughts—the last thing I want to think about while being home. “Good.”
“Have you been getting dizzy lately?” Her next glance is full of concern.
“Only when I’m not careful.” My chest tightens a little bit, and I remind myself to take a deep breath.
Six months ago, the chronic fatigue I’d battled for years decided it needed a friend: POTS. Now I deal with two conditions. The chronic fatigue is the bone-deep exhaustion, the brain fog that makes me forget words. POTS is the new addition where standing up too fast makes the world spin and my heart race like I’ve run a marathon. It’s been half a year of learning tomanage both—compression socks, extra salt, never standing quickly.
Jemma frowns, and I can nearly see her wheels spinning, the questions piling up.Doesn’t it help to eat more salt? What about elevating the head of your bed? Are you staying away from alcohol?
She’s asked me them all before, running through the mental checklist she no doubt compiled with Google. It’s sweet, but right now I don’t feel like being managed.
“How’s work?” I quickly ask, eager to change the subject.
Luckily, it only takes a little push to get Jemma talking. We spend the rest of the drive with her filling me in on recent staff changes and the scandal where Dr. Whitman—sixty and married—was discovered dating a receptionist fresh out of college. “His wife came in during lunch. With a baseball bat! Smashed his Mercedes windshield.” She’s been working as a dental hygienist at the same job since finishing school—in our hometown—and while I used to not understand how she could stay, it’s starting to make more sense to me.
Pine Island didn’t just call to me because there was an empty boathouse begging to be renovated into a physical therapy clinic. The whole area is peaceful in a way that can’t be described. Everyone knows everyone, and people look out for each other. It’s the exact opposite of New York City. It’s the exact opposite of what I lived when I was with?—
I shake off another thought about Oliver as we pull up to the house.
Green and red lights cover every surface—bushes, roof, even the mailbox. Inflatable animals in scarves dot the yard. Jude and Henry have clearly gotten into a decorating competition with the neighbors.
They’re always like that. Go big or go home. It’s confirmation that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be: back with my family.
Jemma and I hustle inside, my sister insisting on carrying mysuitcase. We’ve barely taken off our boots when our parental units descend.
“Look at you!” Mom takes me by the shoulders. “Is your hair shorter? You look tired.”
“Hey, kid.” Henry hugs me tight, his beard tickling my cheek.
Jude approaches with a tray of fresh-baked cookies. “Welcome home, sweet pea. I made your favorite.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I kiss him on the cheek before accepting a chocolate chip cookie.
It’s kind of like a cliché holiday movie—except not, because my mom and dad aren’t a couple and never were. Jude’s been “gay since day one,” as he likes to put it, and he and Mom have been best friends for forty years. When they both decided they wanted kids without waiting for Mr. Right, they used science to make it happen.
So here Jemma and I are, the result of that.
It’s exhausting to explain the whole thing to people, although not as exhausting as explaining our current living situation: Jude and Henry live in the main house where Mom and Jude raised us, while Mom lives in the renovated bungalow out back.
The part that seems to blow people’s minds is that everyone is happy. My mom and dad get along better than most married couples, and since Henry’s been in our lives since we were preteens, we see him as a parent too.
“Are you eating enough?” Henry frowns. “Jude, give her another cookie.”
“I’m okay.” I laugh, taking a second cookie anyway.
They won’t hear it, though, and I kind of like it. After months of being a responsible adult, it’s good to be coddled.
“Your timing is perfect. Dinner is almost ready.” Mom leads us through the living room with its crooked Christmas tree drowning in ornaments, into the dining room with its displaycases full of tiny ceramic dogs—Henry’s collection, for some reason—and view of the snowy backyard, a path shoveled to the bungalow at the edge of the trees.
Chatter fills the room as we carry dishes to the table. The scent of garlicky mashed potatoes and pot roast should make me hungry. I settle into the chair with the wobbly leg that Jude keeps promising to fix, but my appetite has vanished.
Where is Oliver? Is he spending Christmas with his family, or is he at Niall’s?
It’s stupid. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. When he walked into the pizzeria, my stomach sank. Yet at the same time... I was excited to see him.
