Page 28 of Knot So Social

“Shit,” I mutter, the guilt blocking my airflow like a phantom sucker punch. “What happened?”

He moves aside to let me enter.

“Um. Lights went green, I took off and then wham!” He slams his palms together. “Not my fault, but here we are.”

I wince. “The truck?”

He shakes his head.

His small apartment closes around us. Single bed under the window, kitchenette clean but piled with mismatched plastic storage containers. One recliner faces the TV cabinet, also piled with junk. His guitar clings to a little shelf in one corner.

“You staying long?” he asks, jerking his thumb toward the sink. “I was about to have some instant noodles.”

I stare at my twin. He’s been in hospital, lost his truck, and now he’s calmly offering to make me ramen? I bark out a harsh laugh.

“What did the hospital say?”

“Oh.” His eyes slide away from mine. “They let me out just a few hours ago. Concussion, apparently, but shouldn’t be too serious.”

He says it like he doesn’t even know for sure.

“Sit down,” I growl, pointing to his faded forest-green recliner. “I’ll do the cooking.”

He doesn’t argue. That’s not his style. In fact, he’s always followed my lead without complaint. I stomp my way through the kitchen, opening cupboards to search for a pot. My alpha intensity steams around me, finally seeping out of lockdown. Even without asking, I know Jeremy won’t mind.

The armchair squeaks as he lowers his big body into it, but I catch his softly hissed breath. He’s in pain.

Silence descends as I put the dehydrated noodle sheets in the pan, add water, and get it on the stove. My shoulders relax and I slump on the bench.

“Sorry, bro,” I say.

Jeremy throws me a quizzical look.

“For not taking your call yesterday. Tracey, she—” I peter out. What kind of man blames his fiancé for his own shitty behavior? “I mean, I should’ve realized you needed me.”

Jeremy shrugs. “It’s okay. I’m all right.”

It’s infuriating how laid back this guy.

I slap my hand down on the bench. “You could’ve died! I saw the wreckage.” I shove away from the bench and push his dirty dishes into the sink.

He studies me, gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I s’pose I coulda.”

Not sure if I’m imagining it, but I read a challenge in his thoughtful gaze. What would I, his older brother, his twin, have done if he hadn’t made it?

I run hot water and get the dish brush out, scraping at caked-on food stains before giving up and leaving the mess to soak. Can’t blame him for having crusty dishes when he was in hospital overnight.

Or for any of the broken things in my life.

When the water in the pot starts boiling, I crack four eggs in and stir them a little. Half a rotisserie chicken from the back of the fridge gets shredded and thrown on top to heat up, and then I turn the stove off and dish up the food.

Jeremy starts to get up, but I shoo him back into place and take the bed. Reminds me of the old days, sharing a house after moving out of Mom and Dad’s place. The lack in his home also makes me feel guilty for having designer furniture with cup holders and warming technology back at my house.

“Noodles are soggy,” he says.

“Don’t look a damn gift horse in the mouth,” I retort.

He smirks and slurps up the steaming food.