“Please. Help me get home,” I beg aloud to no one, or maybe to the MASH overlords. I picture them ignoring me in favor of reading Delia’s catalogs. They’re probably sitting on a bunch of glittery blow-up chairs in a pastel sky, brainstorming which melodramatic lyrics to use in their AIM away messages.
I slouch onto the floor, hopeless but determined. Perhaps I need to embrace the power of positive thinking. Or pray to every god in every religion, as well as to Beyoncé.
My phone rings. I’m so startled, I drop it. Scrambling, I pick it up, weepy when I see my brother’s face filling the screen. I choose to believe Beyoncé made this happen for me.
I answer the FaceTime call. “Ryan! You’re here! But you’re…”
He laughs. “I’m at work, Ru. Everything okay?”
My heartbeat quickens. Ryan’s in chef’s whites, and his dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Although he’s smiling, dark circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes, his exhaustion visible even through the screen. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“I work today. You knew this.”
“Where are you?”
“Uh, Madre’s?” He pulls a face. “What’s up? Fourteen calls in a row must be our new record. I’m guessing they were butt dials?”
The room spins. Ryan doesn’t work in a restaurant. He works from home—from his apartment in the city, close to me. He’s a sales rep for a tech company.
“We’re dealing with the Sunday brunch crowd,” says thestranger who’s supposed to be my twin. “So this really isn’t the best time. Did you need something?”
Answers. I need answers.
Years ago, Ryan offhandedly mentioned the idea of culinary school, and I gently pointed out that he’d be better off choosing a more practical career. One that didn’t involve working alongside the many allergens for which he’d visited the emergency room. More than once.
He never brought it up again.
“Are you being careful?” I ask dumbly.
“I’m great. Minus the shit I’ll be in if I don’t get going. You sure you’re alright?”
My voice comes out strangled. “Yeah.”
Apparently, he didn’t hop universes with me. And I can’t make him question my sanity. No matter where I am, rule number one stays the same: Look after my brother.
“I’ll call you later,” he promises. “Love you.”
He hangs up, and I close my eyes. It’s fine. He said he’s fine. Great, even.
That makes one of us. I text Bridget for the sixth time:Where are you???
While I wait for her reply, I rifle through the closet. I need to get dressed and get out of this funhouse, but as I shove hangers aside, I can’t find anything that isn’t loud, sequined, or altogether Too Much. Guess I won’t be blending in around here.
At last, dressed in pink jeans and a color-blocked sweater that wouldn’t look out of place onSesame Street, I head into my bathroom and gag, assaulted by the haunting cucumber-melon scent.
The space is stunning, though, with a hexagon-tiled floor and a freestanding tub surrounded by a semicircle of windows. I standat the navy-blue vanity, staring into one of the twin mirrors backed by floral wallpaper. I’m tanner than usual, and as I run my fingers through the ends of my blunt, shoulder-length haircut, I realize I have highlights, too. Or maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the dreamy haze, like a flattering filter.
In the drawers, I find the full lineup of Lip Smacker flavors, along with lots of bronzer, bright eye shadow, and what looks to be an entire section of body glitter.
I’m downstairs pulling my bedazzled key fob from a hook near the garage when Bridget finally texts me back.
Rubyyyy. Send help. Send Gatorade. I’m still in bed.
At your parents’ house?
No, I went home with the bartender after he called me “babygirl” all night.
Yes, I’m at my parents’ house. I’m taking the train back to the city later.
