Page 58 of My Twin Sister

I should go home and figure out my next move. I should try to talk to Tara again and try to ask her about the picture without getting punched in the face.

But I don’t want to do any of that. Not right now. There’s something about being around Murphy that feels less heavy. Like I’m letting a guard down that I wasn’t aware was up. I have plenty of guards that have to stay up. But there’s something that feels lighter when I’m with him.

At his house, he lights a fire and brings me a bottle of beer.

The label is pink and black in a swirly pattern that almost looks like water. “What is this?”

“It’s a beer. One of mine. I brewed it.”

“Yourself? Like you made it?”

He nods and takes a sip.

“Are you poisoning me?” I ask. I sniff the open hole of the bottle. It smells bitter like an IPA. But there’s a hint of something else. Blueberry, I think.

“Only one way to find out.”

I shrug and take a sip. I was right. The taste of blueberry explodes in my mouth before fading to the nice bitter flavor IPAs are known for.

“Wow,” I say. “It’s really good.” I take another sip and turn the bottle in my hand to examine the label again. Murphy plops down beside me on the couch. I notice there are words hidden in the swirls. They’re not easy to make out. I study them for another minute and feel his eyes on me.

Then I see it.

Drown with Grace.

I look at him. “Is that the name of the beer?” He’s closer than I realized. “Drown with Grace?”

He nods, watching me. He looks unsure. Probably worried what I’ll think or how I’ll take it. My name on his beer. The reference to my drowning.

“It’s one of my older recipes,” he says. His voice is a little gruff and he clears his throat. “I started brewing beer when I quit drugs. This was the first one I finished.”

“Finished?” I ask. My heart hammers in my chest.

He nods. “It’s a finicky process. Hard to get just right. This was the first one I got right.”

“And you named it after me?”

He nods again. Swallows.

I almost say something stupid, make a joke to lighten the intensity I feel deep in my insides. Instead, I say nothing. My eyes fall to his mouth and my mind races with a million questions about Murphy Hanlon. My high school boyfriend’s best friend who I only ever saw as a burnout.

A boy who bought me beer when I was underage and told me I was being cruel. A man who remembers so many moments I’ve forgotten. Who can tell when I’m upset in two seconds flat and make me laugh with banter that feels effortless. A man that has developed quite impressive shoulders over the years and whose blue eyes, which I can finally see, make my insides warm.

He leans forward the tiniest bit. Immeasurable except by the feel of electricity making my lips tingle. There are a million reasons to stand up and go home. But I’ve always been good at ignoring those kinds of things, so I close the gap.

It’s so hesitant at first. Our mouths barely touching, afraid of the choice we’ve just made. But just as fast, the uncertainty gives way to desire. He presses harder into me and me into him. His hand slips behind my head, his fingers in my hair. There are no thoughts anymore except for him and what I want.

* * *

I didn’t intend to stay the night at Murphy’s. I feel regret, though I’m not sure why. I made the decision to kiss him and to let things progress from there. But I can’t help feeling like I should have gone home instead. I shouldn’t have complicated things even more than they already are.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice deep with sleep. I turn my head to face him. Despite the regret and anxiety churning inside me, I smile. Has he always been this beautiful?

“Good morning,” I whisper.

“Do you want some coffee? Breakfast?”

“Coffee would be great.”