Page 59 of My Twin Sister

He hops out of bed, and my stomach flip-flops at the sight of his naked and muscular body. There’s an angry red scar on the back of his shoulder I didn’t notice last night. I watch him grab a pair of shorts from a dresser drawer and disappear, leaving me to spiral alone in his bed.

I don’t let myself succumb to my thoughts for long. Instead, I slide from beneath the blankets and get dressed in my clothes from yesterday. I’ll have one cup of coffee and get back home. Last night doesn’t matter. Adults can have fun together and it doesn’t mean anything more than that. I don’t want it to mean anything more. I don’t have the damn time for this. That’s what I tell myself.

I meet Murphy in the kitchen, where the smell of coffee makes my muscles relax just a fraction. He has a candle lit on the counter. Does he always light it in the morning, or is this just for me?

“How do you take your coffee?” he asks.

“Depends. Just cream if it’s flavored. Cream and sugar if it’s not.”

He turns to open the fridge and takes out a bottle of French Vanilla creamer. “Will this work?”

“That’s perfect.” I take it from him and splash some into my cup. The dark liquid lightens in magical swirls before I use a spoon to stir it.

I should say something about last night. How it shouldn’t happen again. How things are complicated, not just right now, but completely and irreversibly. But I can’t bring myself to form the words.

I take a sip from my coffee and close my eyes to savor the flavor and warmth that slides down my throat. Flashes from last night play behind my eyelids, and I can feel my whole face warm. I open my eyes. Murphy is watching me and I feel even hotter.

“I need to get back home,” I say. I can walk if I need to. I made the run the other night to pick up my car, but it’s a little farther than I feel like going on foot right now.

“I’ll drive you.”

I nod. We’re both being awkward. Neither of us knows what to say or how to say it. After our coffee and many uncomfortable silences, I follow him outside to his truck. He keeps looking at me like he wants to say something, but he seems nervous. Maybe he’s afraid to scare me away or say the wrong thing.

I open my mouth, still unsure what I’m going to say, but knowing I need to say something. I freeze on the sidewalk when a police car races by with the siren on. It disappears in a cloud of dust kicked up from the tires.

Murphy shrugs, and I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, biting at the dry skin. We start driving toward town, and I check my phone for the millionth time. Still nothing from Geny. Nothing from Brooke either. And nothing from my anonymous friend. My battery is on eight percent, so I lock the screen and put it in my jacket pocket.

“Listen,” Murphy says. I close my eyes tight, bracing myself for what he’s going to say. I have no idea what I want him to say.

He laughs and I open my eyes to look at him. “Look at you,” he says.

“What?”

“You look like you’re about to have a tooth pulled.”

I straighten my face out. “No I don’t.”

“Right,” he says, still looking amused. “I know life is weird for you right now. I’m not trying to make it more confusing.”

My head tilts to the side. “Life has been weird for me for a long time.”

“I can imagine.”

“So are you giving me the I just want to be friends speech?” I ask.

“Not at all. I like you. And I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I’ve liked you for a long time, Grace. I just had too much respect for my best friend to ever consider doing anything about it.”

My throat is tight and my mind is racing. I feel like I’m having an allergic reaction, but that sounds bad and this doesn’t necessarily feel bad. I couldn’t describe it if I wanted to.

When I try to formulate a response, another police car races by us, lights and sirens blaring.

Murphy swerves off the road a bit to avoid being hit by the cop car. “Jesus,” he says.

Neither of us noticed it coming up behind us.

“Something bad happened,” I say. That sick feeling is back, and it refuses to be ignored this time. I take my phone out and call Geny. It goes straight to voicemail. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”