Beside me she makes a small sigh. I choose to interpret it as disappointment.
After a few moments, she breaks the silence and asks, “Why’d you wear your brother’s uniform for the magazine shoot? Didn’t any of them catch on?”
My heart stops. Literally. It halts for a full second before it hitches back up again. I exhale heavily and put an inch of space between us. She’s too potent and I’m feeling weak.
“None of them.”
“Really?” The space between her eyes crinkles. I leap down from the railing and back away. But there’s not enough space I can put between the two of us. I’m about five seconds from throwing her on the ground.
“Really,” I insist. “I wore his MU jersey the entire time and he wore mine. How could you tell?”
“You guys are similar, but it’s pretty easy.” Her tone is dismissive, as if anyone could tell us apart.
“We’re identical.”
“If you say so.” It’s evident she doesn’t see it that way.
“I don’t say it. That’s what reality is.” I pull out my phone and flick to the family album. “Here, you see.” I show her a picture from this past summer. We’re at the lake and we have our arms across each other’s shoulders. My brother is wearing the blue trunks and I have the red trunks. We’re both wearing matching aviators our mom bought for our birthday. “Look, no one else can tell us apart. Even my dad has issues. Only my mom is able to do so consistently.”
“It’s not my fault everyone around you has really shitty eyesight.” She points to my image. “You’re wearing the red shorts.”
Holeee Fuck.
“Exactly how can you tell us apart? Seriously now. No jokes. No games. Swear it on a stack of holy bibles.”
“I’m an atheist.”
“Fine. On a stack of Darwin treatises.” I roll my eyes.
“Your jaw is more square and defined.” She pinches the photo, zooms, and traces her finger across my jaw. I feel the touch as if her finger actually touched my chin. It sends a shudder down my spine. “And his eyes are weirdly close set. Like horror-show weird. Nothing against your brother. And you’re taller and more muscular.”
She thinks I’m more muscular. I can’t wait to tell Ty these details. Right before we both left for school, in between summer training camp and the start of fall ball, we weighed and measured each other. The diameter of our biceps measured the same. I swipe to another photo. This time we’re both wearing suits for my cousin’s wedding. Even for my mom had a hard time telling us apart that day. “How about this one?”
“You’re the one on the left.”
I was the one the left. I tuck my phone away, place my hands on my thighs, and lean over to catch my breath. I wonder if this is how the Hulk feels before he goes green. My heart races, my palms sweat, and I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.
“Is something wrong?” She places a hand on my back and I force myself not to flinch away.
“No. Everything is exactly how it should be.” I exhale one more time and straighten to look at my girl’s face, which shows equal parts confusion and worry. I grab her hand. We need a buffer and right now the buffer will be people. Lots and lots of people.
9 Ellie
“You look thirsty,” Masters says as he drags me from my corner on the porch toward the keg line and then into the kitchen. I’m blinking from the sudden change in scenery. One minute we were sitting in the near dark, the only lighting from the moon and the tiny Christmas lights, talking about how many bases he’s covered, and in the next he’s dragging me from one end of the house to the other after the weird photo roll test.
He shoulders aside the freshman playing bartender, pulls out a Coke for me, and refills his empty bottle from a pitcher of water in the refrigerator. He really is drinking water.
I find that both charming and strange. My brother is a serious athlete, but he enjoys tying one on. Masters is on another level. I don’t doubt for a second that I’ll be watching him play on Sundays in the next few years from my living room. As if I needed to find something else more appealing about Masters.
“Thanks,” I say when he hands me my drink. I’ve got to get away from him. Somewhere in this house is my older brother and I should go find him. I head toward a dark hallway I spotted off the living area that’s serving as the dance floor for what seems like all thirty thousand students, but I’m stopped by the tether at the end of my hand.
“Going somewhere?” His eyebrow arches slightly and we both know there’s nowhere I can go in this house that Masters won’t find me. The place is too small. He’s too big.
“To find my brother.” I tug, but he doesn’t release me. I could twist my wrist and stomp off. In fact, that’s what I should do. I shouldn’t enjoy the feel of his rough fingers around me. I shouldn’t tingle in my private places at the thought of that touch elsewhere on my body.
Why is it so hard to do what you should do instead of what you want to do? Maybe the better question is: Why do I want things that are bad for me? Because there’s no question that Knox Masters is bad for me. While I may have daddy issues—who wouldn’t with my old man—ever since Travis, I’ve made good decisions when it came to guys. Granted those decisions primarily ended up being avoiding males, but even if Masters didn’t play football, he’d be someone to stay away from. I don’t like overconfident players and despite—or maybe even because of it—Masters’ virginity claim, he’s as confident as they come.