But maybe I’m not.
Messages I Want to Send to Penn (but Can’t Because He Wouldn’t Understand)
A picture of a clarinet.Thinking of you. Is this one sexy?
The megaphone emoji, followed by:FREE LAP DANCE. COME AND GET YOUR FREE LAP DANCE.
A racy selfie.Dress code: underclothes.
Potential band name: Slippery Guacamole.
Will you come clean my ceiling fans? (Not a euphemism.) (Unless you want it to be.)
A picture of a beanbag chair.Wish you were here.
Hi. I miss you. Would even go to Costco for you.
24
Breaking and Entering
Four weeks later,I have no job, no bed, and no plan, and I’ve never breathed easier.
Connor offered to pay the two months’ rent to break our lease, and I’m thrilled to have a clean slate. Last week, I sold as much of our furniture as I could and donated more than half of my depressing clothes. While I hunt for a new place, Ryan’s letting me crash on his couch.
Fortunately, Mom and Dad didn’t sound any alarms about my breakup, or even my unemployment. In fact, they sounded relieved. For years, I’ve been telling myself to be careful with my parents, but really, I was being careful with myself.
I’m done with all that. And it’s funny. Usually, I despise in-between times, but this one feels good, like a long, much-needed stretch. The weather doesn’t hurt, either. It’s a sunny Sunday morning in early October, my favorite time of year, and my mood matches the season—as if someone’s cracked open the window of my life and let in a crisp, welcome breeze.
Along with a hungover brother.
Ryan stumbles into his kitchen, bleary-eyed, wearing flannel pants and a rumpled Chicago Bulls T-shirt. “I swear, Ruby,” he says with a groan. “If you don’t stop banging around all those pans, I’m going to start banging them on your head.”
Okay, so our situation isn’t perfect. Turns out moving in with your twin in your mid-thirties isn’t without its complications. Especially when his apartment could be confused with a decently sized walk-in closet. But we’re managing.
I reach back into the drawer. “Sorry. I—”
“I’m serious,” Ryan warns. “Enough with the unnecessary banging.”
I pause and meet his eyes. “That’s what she said.”
He grinds his teeth, unamused, so I raise both hands like I’m under arrest. “I’m just a girl. Standing in front of a stove. Trying to make her favorite brother some brunch. Can you at least pretend to be grateful?”
Ryan heaves out another sigh, silent and deliberating and possibly still a little drunk after we spontaneously bought tickets to last night’s Blackhawks game. “You don’t cook, Ru.”
“Not often,” I correct. All forms of food preparation fit squarely in the Ryan circle of our twin Venn diagram. “But look. Here I am. Trying. And don’t pretend French toast doesn’t sound delicious. Bonus points if I can pull off the rest of these recipes, too.”
I gesture to the ingredients I’ve set out beside the coffee maker. It’s an ambitiously large spread, but I can’t resist romanticizing fall-inspired dishes, so I’m cooking up vegan French toast, baked cinnamon sweet potatoes, and hot maple lattes topped with foam.
Ryan’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing. He can’t argue with sugar-covered bread. Nobody can.
Surrendering, he rounds the counter and peeks at my laptop,which sits propped open beside the stove. His head juts back. “Wait. Is that…”
“Yep,” I confirm, spraying my first pan. “It’sWynne-ing Recipes. Back from the depths of the internet. A bit dated, but still plenty useful.”
Ryan huffs out a disbelieving laugh, uncharacteristically shy as he scratches at his head. “I thought I deleted that blog.”
“Well, luckily, you didn’t.” I reach for the bread and say, “Maybe you should give it a facelift. Bring it back. I’ve been eating better than I have in years since moving in with you. You’re really talented, Ry.”
