Daan repaid his debt the next morning, bringing me coffee and a sealed bowl of Froot Loops. He is kind of impossible not to love.
“What is it this time?” I ask Daan. “Bartenders again?” The two behind the bar on most Friday nights, a man and a woman, are an ongoing fixation for Daan. They’re both his type—tall, skinny, dressed in black, with a variety of piercings.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Chessa beats him to it. “Of course it’s bartenders,” she confirms, rolling her eyes. But her mouth curves in an affectionate smile. She hasn’t known Daan quite as long as I have, but he doesn’t take long to grow on you.
“Daan,” I say. “We’ve talked about this. Just because they work together does not mean they doeverythingtogether.”
“You don’t know that,” Daan says with a pout, resting his chin in his hand. Then he straightens up with a longing expression. “Just look at them. How they move around each other without colliding, like a dance, it’s beautiful.”
I watch the two in question swirl in a coordinated whirlwindbehind the scratched wooden bar. It is impressive how they keep up with the increasing demands of drunken college students with minimal spills and breakage, I’ll admit that.
“Also, you don’t want to be that guy,” Chessa adds. “That guy who hits on the bartenders while they’re trying to work.”
“That guy who flirts at a funeral,” I jump in. “With a grieving family member.”
“That guy who follows you into the bathroom to convince you that you need his number,” Chessa says with distaste, and we both shudder at the memory.
“You’re better than that guy,” I say, and Chessa nods.
“Maybe I am not,” he says with defiance. “Just look at them. They are two halves of a whole.” He holds his hand out like he’s delivering a passionate soliloquy. “They are matching pieces who found each other in this harsh, difficult world. They are—”
“They are brother and sister,” Carter speaks up, startling me, his tone wry.
“Wait.” Daan sits forward in the booth, shifting his attention to Carter. “Are you serious?”
Carter nods. “Fraternal twins, actually. Dove was in Economic Theory with me last year.”
Of course.I shake my head.
A sharp blast of laughter escapes from Chessa before she claps her palm over her mouth. When she lowers her hand a moment later, her expression is one of deep solemnity, but her eyes are bright with humor and her mouth is twitching with the effort to stay straight. “How fortunate they didn’t have to look very far to find each other in this harsh, difficult world,” she says in a strangled voice.
“Haha, yes, very funny,” Daan says, giving her the finger.
Chessa breaks, doubling over with laughter.
I swallow in anticipation of the disappointment from Daan, already watchful to make sure it’s not too much for him.
But no. There’s no swaying in his seat, no color fading from his face. No disappointment. Instead, Daan looks thoughtful.
Okay, ew. I have no siblings, but I used to wish for one, an older brother or sister, to guide me through the still-steaming shitshow that is occasionally my life. Someone who would understand, someone who I would be close with.
But not that kind of close.
I grimace involuntarily, and Carter, across from me, meets my gaze, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes and pulling at his full mouth. A mouth that I’ve felt pressed against my own. The moment feels… intimate. Like it’s just the two of us here, in a world of our own, operating in some secret understanding.
Except there is no understanding.
Pain sears through me.
“Carter, did you hear what I said?” Lennie asks, her voice just this side of a husky whine, drawing his attention back to her.
I reach for the almost-empty beer pitcher abruptly. “More beer? We need more beer.” I slide out of the booth, moving quickly toward the bar.
Happy’s is divided in half, with booths and four-tops on one side, and dartboards, a jukebox, and tall tables on the other side. The elevated bar dominates the center, patrons gathering in concentric circles around it.
Clutching the handle of the plastic pitcher tightly in my now-sweaty palm, I weave my way through to the bartop and step up.
“Another pitcher, please,” I say to Dove. Now that I’m looking for it, I see the resemblance between her and her brother. Thebrightly colored hair—hers is a neon red and his has bright blue streaks—is a surface differentiation that works at distracting from the obvious.
