“So many buttons!” Charla giggles, and I gag a little as Jack helps her with her seat belt.
What kind of grown woman needs help buckling up? My youngest nephew can strap himself into his booster seat, and he’s six.
I look over at Zane, to see how he’s taking the blatant flirting in the front, but he’s turned so far toward the window that I can only see the back of his head. I look at the small, white scar along his hairline. Zoey told me once it was from a car accident but never gave me the details. I’m one of those people who thinks scars give us character. They tell our stories. Maybe I can break up the awkward tension back here with swapping stories.
Without really thinking about it, I trace my finger along the line of Zane’s scar. He practically jumps out of his seat, slapping my hand away.
“What?” he snaps.
“Whoa. Sorry. I was just wondering about your scar. Zoey said it was from a car accident?”
Zane’s eyes go wide, but a moment later, he’s fully under control again. Almost. There’s a wildness to his gaze still that tells me this scar has to do with something really big. I wish Zoey had warned me. I like getting under his skin, but this isn’t annoyance. It’s pain. I recognize it well.
“Yes. It was a car accident.”
He spins back to the window again, and I watch the tendons and muscles flexing in his neck. I shouldn’t be thinking about how hot Zane’s neck is when he’s upset, but anything is better than thinking about the fact that I just brought up something painful from his past. People might think that I march to the beat of my own drumline and all that, not caring what people think, but the truth is I do care. A lot.
“What kind of music should we listen to?” Jack asks cheerfully, oblivious to the cloud of awkwardness hanging over the back seat. “Anything but—”
“Country!” Charla says, and I swear I hear three matching groans. Charla does not seem to hear them, or maybe she doesn’t care, because moments later, the car is filled with someone crooning about love lost in a field and something about bottles of Bud.
Zane still has his head glued to the view outside the window as we make our way slowly out of Austin in the Friday afternoon traffic. I can’t bear the thought that I upset him by casually bringing up something painful in his past. I’ve got a whole dungeon full of those memories, and I hate when one manages to escape.
“Zane?” I whisper. There’s a slight movement in his shoulders, but he doesn’t turn or answer.
Like I’m trying to tame a wild animal, I cautiously extend my arm and brush my fingers along his shoulder. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. I give his shoulder a little squeeze, trying not to think about how nice and firm his muscles are.
When I haven’t let him go after a few beats, Zane turns slightly. Just enough for me to notice how the blue in his eyes is the same bright color of the endless sky outside.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. He nods, so I lick my lips and continue. “I didn’t mean to pry. I didn’t know.”
Zane swallows, and I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. I’ve never seen him vulnerable, period. It turns something in my heart.
My hand is still on his shoulder, and I loosen my grip just slightly. The music—and Charla’s singing—is loud, so I incline my head toward Zane.
“You see this one?” I point to a scar on my cheek, watching as his eyes track the motion. I know my face flushes. I can’t help it; I hate the round, white scar.
Taking a breath, I continue, lowering my voice a little. “I had terrible acne as a teenager. My face looked like it had been put through a meat grinder. This was from a zit that got infected. Then it turned into staph. I ended up in the hospital for two days.”
Zane’s eyes are locked on mine, that deep blue gaze mesmerizing. They are an infinity pool, and I want to dive in.
“Do you know how embarrassing it is when someone asks about my scar, and I have to tell them it’s from a pimple?” I swallow. Sometimes, truth-telling is hard work. “I used to wear heavy makeup to cover the acne, to cover this scar. I’m not hiding anymore.”
With that, I let my hand drop. I don’t want Zane to feel the way it’s trembling. I’ve already exposed myself enough.
I didn’t expect Zane to say anything. I wasn’t asking for that. When his lips part to speak, the breath stills in my lungs.
Before he can say a word, Charla whips her head around between the two front seats.
“Don’t worry. The scar is hardly noticeable.”
Does the woman have bat ears to go along with her gravity-defying breasts? I had been whispering back here. Whispering.
“I’ve got some amazing concealer I’ll let you try when we get to the resort,” Charla says.
“Uh-huh.” Nope. No way are we leveling up to the kinds of acquaintances who swap concealer. The joke will be on her when she realizes I don’t have concealer to swap. Moisturizer, mascara and lip gloss, baby. That’s my beauty routine.
But she’s still going. “It’s made from baby elephant bone marrow. Totally magical. As long as you don’t think about the poor baby elephants.”
Charla laughs, and I’m honestly wondering if she has a soul.
How could you not think about the baby elephants? Baby elephants are going to haunt my dreams.
Hannibal Lecter’s creepy face invades my mind. Can you hear the baby elephants screaming, Clarice?
It’s Abby. But yes. Yes, I can.
Charla has to be joking. Dumbo. She wants to rub Dumbo’s bone marrow on my face.
She definitely has no soul. When she reaches back to grab my hand, I consider opening my door and doing a barrel roll right out onto the highway.
“We’re going to be best friends by the end of this weekend. I can just tell. I’m so glad we’re sharing a room!”
Sharing a room?
Charla squeals, then goes right back to butchering country songs, like she hadn’t just confessed to murdering baby elephants for the sake of beauty and then dropped a very unpleasant bomb in my lap. One I hope to diffuse ASAP.
Slowly, so as not to pull the wrong wire, I turn back to Zane. Before I even speak, I know the answer to my question.
“Am I sharing a room with her?” I hiss.
Zane has a miserable look on his face. Forget the poor-Zane act, the whole I-have-painful-memories Zane. He is going to die.
“It was that or stay with Jack. We only booked two rooms.”
And boom goes the dynamite.
Chapter Seven
Abby
I manage not to murder Zane, though I do text Zoey to ask if she’d still be my friend if her brother mysteriously didn’t make it home from this weekend.
So far, she hasn’t responded.
The resort is nice enough to distract me from my homicidal thoughts, at least for a few minutes. As I wait in the lobby for Jack to straighten out some issues with our reservation, I’m reading about the amenities. It has two spas—because one isn’t enough?—and a gorgeous outside with several pools, hot tubs, and a lazy river. There are also three restaurants and two coffee bars. Not to mention a handful of actual bars, which I may frequent, depending on how this weekend goes.
“Here.” Zane nudges a coffee cup toward me. “It’s a flat white.”
Taking it doesn’t mean I’m giving in. It just means I need caffeine. I nod and take it from his hands, careful not to touch his fingers. I’m too on edge for that kind of contact right now.
“Thank you. A peace offering?”
“An apology,” Zane says, smoothing his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry you got roped into this. Truly, I am.”
I take a sip of my coffee, which is excellent. “You’ll need to do more than this.”
“I know. Spa treatments. Room service. Unlimited flat whites. Whatever.”
“You think you can buy me off? I’m not that kind of girl.” I give him the tiniest smile, my own version of a peace offering.
“I definitely don’t think you’re that kind of girl.�
��
Zane slides his hands into his pockets, I suspect because he’s trying not to run his hands through his hair again. Though I saw him in casual clothes plenty during college, I’ve gotten so used to seeing him in a suit this week that Zane in dark jeans and a polo shirt throws me off.
Charla and Jack join us, looking a little too cozy. Not that I’m mad about it. Honestly, imagining her with Zane makes me feel all squirmy and dirty. Even more than thinking about me and Jack. Yuck.
“You ready, roomie?” Charla links her arm through mine. “This is going to be so fun! But we only have an hour before dinner. I hope you’ll let me do your makeup!”
Forget wanting to kill Zane for making me share a room with Charla. I need him to save me from what I’m sure will be an hour of torture, only to be followed by a painful dinner with the investors and their wives.
I’d much rather skip out on all of the festivities to geek out over the code. More specifically, trying to find out who is manipulating it. I feel like I’m playing chess, only whoever I’m playing against doesn’t know that another person has entered the game. I’m careful, biding my time, searching for clues and making my plan. That sounds like a whole heck of a lot more fun than a snooty dinner.
Even if dinner has the benefit of more time with Zane.
“Let’s go!” Charla drags me by the arm and I barely manage to get my bags while juggling my flat white.
Zane shoots me another apologetic look, which I think will only be one of many this weekend.
He’s going to owe me a lifetime of flat whites. And I rather like the idea of collecting.
“See? I told you this stuff was great,” Charla says.
I’ve officially sold my soul. Because whatever Charla put on my face is amazing and just as magical as she said. I might even say that it’s worth the deaths of however many baby elephants it took. (I’m still choosing to believe that’s a lie.)
My skin looks radiant. Dewy. Glowing.
The rest of my makeup isn’t so bad either. I refused to let Charla do my makeup for me, but I did allow her to stand over my shoulder, barking directions. She even talked me through doing winged liner using a random liquid eyeliner I found in the bottom of my travel makeup kit. Come to think of it, Zoey probably stuffed it in there.
Even my hair looks amazing in soft curls around my shoulders. I thought maybe Charla might suggest that I hide the pink ends, tucking them into an updo, but Charla said I should showcase them.
Anyway, the end result is that I feel like a Hollywood starlet, about to walk the red carpet on the arm of an A-list actor.
Except that actor tonight is supposed to be Jack. Blech.
Charla points to my cheek, where the round scar is just visible. “I heard what you said about not hiding anymore. I mean, I doubt anyone would notice if you didn’t point it out. But still. I admire your confidence in yourself.”
I could tell her how much work it took to get here. How hard I fought to have the confidence to walk into a room, without wondering if every single person was judging me for what I wore and who I was. Actually, I still wonder that sometimes. Overall, I am confident. I know who I am, and I feel safe being myself. But insecurities never fully disappear. Now, I’m just better at shutting them down. It’s work, though.
But I’m not about to correct Charla and pry open the door to my past humiliations. Even though she’s still going on.
“I love that you’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re so sure of yourself. And you’re gorgeous, with a style that’s all your own.”
She’s being so … nice. I feel instantly guilty for all the not-so-nice thoughts I’ve had about her. My opinion of Charla has changed in the last hour. Maybe she loves country, can’t sing worth squat, and has breasts that could double as weapons, but she’s actually very kind.
“Thanks. You are a great beauty coach,” I tell her. “Is this what you do for a living? Makeup and hair?” I’m asking out of curiosity and also so I can book an appointment for a trim when I get back.
Charla laughs, her nose crinkling adorably as she does. “I wish. I’m a CPA.”
My mouth goes dry. “A CPA?”
“Surprised?”
“I, uh …” There is no way to even hide my shock. I think I’ve set women back decades with my assumptions about Charla based on how she dresses and the fact that she possesses the effervescent brightness of a middle school cheerleader. You know, before high school when they get jaded with life.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be surprised. I know better than to make assumptions about people. Truly. That was dumb of me. And shallow.”
Waving a hand, Charla picks up a makeup brush and goes to work on her cheeks, leaning close to me as she does. Her hair tickles my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. I work with numbers all day. Pays well but boring as all get-out. I let loose when I’m not on the clock. I’m bright and bubbly, which people tend to think means I’m stupid.”
“You are anything but stupid. You’re full of surprises,” I tell her, standing so I can slip on my heels.
Another surprise is the tasteful, conservative black dress Charla is wearing. Her chest is modestly covered, and the hemline reaches her knees. She’s wearing pearls. Pearls.
All of which makes my shorter black dress with a studded belt and matching choker seem slightly scandalous. We definitely don’t seem like we’re going to the same dinner.
Did a sinkhole just open up in the floor? Because I think my stomach just plunged into it.
Forget my confidence that Charla just admired. I’ve lost it completely.
I need to get away from the hot lights in front of the mirror. Fanning my face, I walk over to the bed and begin digging through my purse. Not like I’m going to find any bravery in there to combat the intense bout of nerves.
Room service delivers wine, right? Because I’m seriously considering locking myself in the bathroom for the rest of the night. Me and the giant jacuzzi tub can have our own date. Actually, I’ll change the wine order for champagne. Bubbles and bubbly. Perfect.
Ab-by. Agent Gibbs to the rescue. This isn’t you anymore.
With a few deep breaths and some mental gymnastics, I agree with my inner Gibbs. This isn’t me. My insecurities don’t own me. The tightness in my chest loosens as Charla heads for the door.
“It’s time.” Giving me a last appraising glance, she says, “You’re going to blow Jack away.”
But I don’t care about Jack. And it’s not like I can tell Charla that I’m more concerned about what her date thinks about me. I grab my purse and flash her a smile that’s a total lie.
“Let’s go impress some investors’ wives.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Dr. Love,
My girlfriend keeps hinting about getting engaged. What she doesn’t know is that I’ve been saving for her dream ring and am almost there.
The problem is that all the nagging is making me think twice. Is she going to bug me this much about everything if we get married? I’m feeling unsure if I should even propose now.
Sincerely,
Guy who can’t think of a creative name
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Nicely Nagged,
Typically, people are on their best behavior while dating. The longer the relationship, the more of the real person you’ll see.
If she’s nagging now, you better bet she’ll be nagging later.
As I see it, you’ve got two choices. The first is to run screaming for the hills. It’s a valid, however cowardly, option.
The second is to talk about the issue head-on. The fact that you’re writing to me rather than being direct with your girlfriend tells me that you’ve got some growing up and maturing to do yourself.
It’s simple: walk or talk, dude.
Sincerely,
Dr. Love
Chapter Eight
/> Zane
This isn’t a date. It isn’t.
You would know, Zoey’s voice in my head says. Considering you’ve been on a thousand of them.
Ha ha. Nice burn, Zo.
If it’s weird that I sometimes have mental conversations with my twin, then so be it. I’ve never heard of this being one of those twin things—and believe me, I looked it up when I started having arguments with her in my head—but I just consider the Zoey voice to be my conscience. My own personal Jiminy Cricket.
The thing is, I’m realizing as Jack and I wait by the elevators for Abby and Charla, I really haven’t been nervous like this about a date. Maybe once or twice in high school, when I actually liked the girls I asked out, and when I cared if they said no.
Before Mom died.
For the past few years, dating has been like checking out library books. I’d pick one I liked, keep her for a week or two, and then return her. And while I know comparing women to library books might sound bad, it’s not like I was ever finishing the book. Rarely did we make it past the first chapter. I didn’t turn down the corners of pages or anything barbaric. No strings, nothing serious. I was always up front about that, and other than when women got clingy, like Chelsea, no one got hurt.
That you know of. I really wish I could get Zoey’s voice out of my head sometimes. But maybe it’s just what I need to hear tonight.
Because as much as I hate the feeling of sweaty palms and my stomach dropping out of the bottoms of my feet, it reminds me of how it used to feel. Of who I used to be. I think the nerves are a good thing.
Except that I’m not supposed to be feeling anything. Because this isn’t a date.
I’m wearing a path in the carpet between the bank of elevators and the gift shop. Meanwhile, Jack is the picture of ease, leaning against the wall, reading something on his phone. Sometimes I wonder if he has a soul. Or if he sold it in exchange for the constant, cocky brand of confidence he wears.
Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin: a Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Clichés Romantic Comedy Series Book 1) Page 6