I hear a snap in front of my face. “Tristan? Did you a hear word I said?” Rogue asks with a look of exasperation on her face.
“I’m sorry, I was gathering my thoughts and I missed that,” I confess.
Rogue’s shoulders slump in defeat as she hisses, “Oh God! You must have to tell me something really f-ed up. Do I need to have somebody here with me?”
“What? No… well not unless you want to,” I stammer. Geez, I must’ve left my professional demeanor in my other pants pocket this morning. “I don’t necessarily have bad news for you. It’s just a really complicated situation I’m trying to puzzle out. I’m still not sure how it’s going to resolve itself. A lot of it depends on the information you provide,” I explain. I hate how disjointed I sound.
Rogue relaxes just a bit and sits back into the booth. “Please go on with your explanation, because you’re starting to freak me out,” she instructs making a sweeping gesture with her arm.
The tension is thick in the room as I pull an 8 x 10 glossy of Ivy out of my folder and place it in front of Rogue. I am so relieved I obtained Ivy’s permission to disclose the details of this case as I deemed necessary, because this is not playing out how I originally thought it would.
Rogue picks up the picture and immediately drops it as if it is on fire. “Holy shit!” she exclaims. “Who the hell is this? She looks just like me, but that’s not me.” Rogue is looking at me, her eyes pleading for answers. The myriad of emotions crossing her face reminds me of the viewfinder toy we had as kids. One second, she looks angry, the next hopeful, the next scared, the next excited. Finally, she turns very pale and still.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” Rogue asks in a voice barely above a whisper.
I reach out and grasp her hand, which is ice cold. “Rogue, I wish I had some answers for you, but I don’t. The pieces of the puzzle aren’t coming together neatly.”
A single tear slides down Rogue’s face as she pleads, “Tell me what you know.”
I start to tell her the whole saga, “My client, Ivy Love Montclaire, came to me because she suspected someone had stolen her identity. She encountered some unusual activities—”
Rogue interrupts me, “Don’t tell me...she signed up for BrainsRSexy.com. I knew I didn’t recognize that picture!”
“How could you post a profile with a picture that’s not yours?” I ask, trying to understand the situation.
“Funny you should ask because I just happen to have a really awkward story to tell you,” Rogue says with a self-deprecating grin. “My best friend is this guy named Marcus Brolin. Marcus thinks he’s a regular standup comedian, and one day he and a bunch of his buddies got a little buzzed. They decided it was a spectacular idea to sign me up for this ridiculous matchmaking website to alleviate my chronic single-hood. Unfortunately, they didn’t warn me ahead of time that they were going to do this. Since I work for Marcus at the tattoo parlor, he knows all of my email addresses and passwords. We’ve been friends for over five years, so whatever biographical information he didn’t know about me, he just embellished. But even he can’t figure out where the picture came from. He thought maybe one of the other guys had it on their phone, but we went back and checked and no one’s ever seen that picture before, so it must belong to Ivy. Yet, I’m not sure how it got on my profile. I didn’t put it there.”
I think about her question for a minute and use my background in computer science as I try to figure out what might’ve gone on behind the scenes. It’s extremely far-fetched but I guess it’s theoretically possible. “Okay, I have an idea, but it’s a total long-shot. It presupposes a lot of things that we haven’t even begun to prove.”
“First, I have a hunch you and Ivy are actually twins,” I announce, trying to be gentle with my earth shattering news.
“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Rogue admits as she takes a large gulp of coffee. “I mean, on one hand, I have the picture right in front of me. It’s hard to argue with that kind of proof. You’ve actually seen Ivy, does she really look this much like me?” she asks, the question looming over us like a large thundercloud.
“Rogue, I don’t know which answer you’re hoping to hear, but unequivocally, she is the mirror image of you physically,” I confirm. “Beyond that, your voices and laughter even sound the same. Her Vermont accent is a little stronger, but her tone sounds very much like yours.”
Abruptly the atmosphere in the restaurant changes again. I’m not quite sure what I said to trigger the change. Rogue is looking almost faint as she asks in a low, strained whisper, “Did you say Vermont?”
I consult my notes to make sure that I’m not making a mistake, “Yes, some place in upstate Vermont ... Oh here it is—Hopewell Springs,” I confirm.
This time, Rogue visibly sways. I yell at the barista, “Grab me an orange juice and a chocolate chip cookie.”
The barista quickly brings them over. “Don’t worry about it, they’re on the house.”
I nod at her as I say, “Thanks.”
I stick a straw in the juice and unwrap the cookie. “Rogue, you’ll feel better if you take a sip.”
Trembling, she grasps the straw and takes a long sip and then eats a small bite of cookie. “I don’t even know how this is possible. I’m not adopted. How can I have a twin? But I know that I was born in Hopewell Springs. I’ve seen my birth certificate. My birth certificate doesn’t list me as a twin. None of this makes any sense,” she argues.
“Remember when I said there were pieces of the puzzle that don’t fit? This is what I mean. For example, Ivy has a completely different birthday than you,” I concede.
“I want to go back to the mystery of the dating profile for a minute. Bear with me as I work through a very strange theory. It might be nothing or it might be the key to what happened. I’m kind of a science and genetics nut. I’ve studied a little bit about the genetic bond between twins, and I wonder if it might apply to you and Ivy.”
Rogue glances at me sharply as she replies, “How could it? I didn’t even know she existed.”
“But, what if your brains processes information in the same way?” I suggest. “Look, my theory could be totally whacked, but I think maybe you and Ivy have exactly the same email address and password at BrainsRSexy.com, and somehow your profiles got merged.”
For the first time in about twenty minutes, Rogue smiles. She’s pretty enough to stop traffic with any expression on her face, but when she smiles, she takes gorgeous to a whole new level. She chuckles in a deep husky tone that reminds me of hot buttered rum, “Oh man, that would be wild, wouldn’t it? They could write scholarly papers on it or something,” she says laughing. Do you promise not to laugh at my stupid email address and password Mr. Security person?
“As long as your password isn’t ‘password’ or 1234,” I tease.
“Do people really do that?” she asks, shock evident in her voice.
“With frightening regularity,” I reply wryly.
“Whew, I guess I’m safe then,” she responds, with a wink. “Mine is a little more complicated than that. My username is IDreamInColor and my password is TrustbutVerify911.”
I draw in a sharp breath as I realize the implications of what happened. It’s one thing to have scientific curiosity about how the whole twin connection works; it’s a whole different thing to see the very real human ramifications play out in front of your eyes. I shut my eyes briefly as I try to collect my thoughts and determine the best way to frame the discussion.
When I open my eyes, it’s clear Rogue has already drawn her own conclusions based on my facial expressions and body language.
She looks at me with misty eyes and simply asks, “We did the impossible, didn’t we?”
I nod slowly. “You sure did.”
“What do you think the odds are we could have done that without being twins?”
“I’m no math major, but between your username and password, there are about 30 digits. I remember from my statistics cl
ass that the odds of guessing an eight digit number is about three trillion to one. It goes up exponentially for every digit thereafter. So for 30 digits, you might as well figure that it’s pretty much incalculable. Additionally, your password is broken into two distinct units and contains both upper and lower case characters which makes it more difficult to guess,” I explain.
Rogue shakes her head like she’s trying to clear an image. “I thought you might say that,” she says as she wipes her eyes with the little cocktail napkins that the barista provided.
I reach out and remove the crumpled napkins from her hands and start to warm her hands between my own. “Rogue, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the chances this was just random are pretty much nil,” I say as I reach up and brush a tear off her cheek. She leans her face into my palm and takes a deep breath.
“I think I knew that from the moment I first saw Ivy’s picture. Actually, I think part of me has had a sense of it for an extraordinarily long time. I’ve always been a bit of a nomad looking for something or someone that I couldn’t really find. There were times when I was little when I would collapse from pain and no one could determine the cause. Now I wonder if I was having those phantom twin pains. If I had to guess based on my childhood, I suspect Ivy has asthma or something like that wrong with her lungs. She must’ve completely trashed her ankle somewhere around the 10th grade. That sucker hurt for almost an entire year.”
I’m blown away by Rogue’s composure. If I were in her shoes, I’m pretty sure I would be completely freaking out. “I’m impressed that this doesn’t seem to be fazing you much. I think if it were me, I’d be a blubbering idiot.”
When Rogue hears my voice, she blinks as if she just remembered I was in the room. “What? Oh! Trust me, I’m having a multilayered response. Part of me is relieved. I’m just relieved that I haven’t been crazy my whole life. Depending on which specific second you ask me, I’m either totally jazzed or completely terrified to meet Ivy,” she says as she digs her cell phone out of her backpack.
“I should really call Marcus. Oh Geez, how do I explain all this to him?” She turns and spins on one foot like someone who’s had many years of dance lessons, “Wait! Is any of this confidential?” she asks. “Should I wait to tell folks?”
I can almost watch the questions tumble around in her brain like bingo balls at a retirement home. “Ivy gave me permission to share her story, so I doubt she would mind,” I interject.
“Does Ivy even know that she’s adopted? Why hasn’t my mom said anything during all these years? Even when I was going to the doctor with my mysterious pain, she never said a word. I’m so confused,” Rogue says as she grabs her cell phone and gets up to walk outside.
I pause for a moment, uncertain what to do. I want to respect her privacy, but she’s still pretty shaky and I’m worried about leaving her alone.
When Rogue notices that I’m behind her, she turns around and motions for me to follow her. “Are you coming?” she asks. “I want you there. I’m not ready to be alone right now.”
I’m not sure why I have such an inordinate sense of male pride and empowerment from her simple words of trust, but I do. I’m also aware this is a completely inappropriate time to be thinking about how attractive she is. Yet for some reason, I can’t seem to stop my brain from going down that path. It’s kind of bizarre for me since I’ve met both sisters. I thought Ivy was pretty in a generic sense of the word pretty and I appreciated her sense of humor, but I wasn’t extraordinarily attracted to her.
Even though on the surface, Ivy and Rogue look alike, from the moment I started surveillance on Rogue, her energy has attracted me. She has an external toughness that hides a real tender side.
By the time I grab our drinks and book bags and finally catch up with Rogue, she’s already on the phone with someone. I’m not purposely trying to eavesdrop, but I hear her becoming more agitated, “... No ... listen...Marc! I really can’t explain this on the phone. Can you meet me at the coffee shop? Let’s see... on the scale of importance…Remember when that waitress tried to pretend she was pregnant with your baby? That was like a three. This is like a 27.... Oh shut up! I am not pregnant! I would actually have to have sex before I can get pregnant. You of all people should know that I don’t even have time to breathe, let alone have sex. I’ll see you in ten minutes, you big, stupid jerk.”
Rogue hangs up her phone and stuffs it in her back pocket. She surreptitiously wipes tears from her eyes with the hem of her oversized Miami Heat T-shirt.
I clear my throat to alert her to my presence. She spins around and her eyes widen when she sees me. Her hand covers her mouth in horror and she gasps as she says, “Please tell me you didn’t hear that conversation.”
I shrug nonchalantly as I respond agreeably, “Okay, I’ll tell you I didn’t hear that conversation.”
“For my own sanity, I’m going to choose to believe you,” she replies. “That was my friend, Marcus. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“He’s your best friend, right?” I confirm.
Rogue nods as she says, “Yeah, he’s like a big brother, only way cooler. I don’t know how I would’ve made it the last five years without him,” she declares, her affection clearly evident.
“Have you decided what you’re going to tell him?” I ask.
“Not precisely, but I’m guessing it’s going to be something along the lines of my entire life is about to change.”
The conversation seems lighthearted enough, yet as soon as she utters those words out loud, she starts trembling uncontrollably again. I lead her over to a little bench in a secluded corner of the patio. I motion for her to sit down as I remove my jacket and hang it around her shoulders.
I snag our drinks and placed them on the little side table next to the patio bench. I silently sit next to her and place my arm around her shoulders. As corny as it sounds, I just try to sit there quietly and wick away some of her pain. I can’t think of anything more useful I could be doing at the moment. We sit there for about five minutes, the sound of silence so deafening I’m sure she can hear every beat of my racing heart.
“Tristan,” Rogue says in a small voice. “It’s true you know.”
“What’s true?” I ask, having lost complete track of the conversation.
“That everything is going to change in my life. I’m so scared. I was barely juggling everything as it was. Now I have a bunch of new complications. I don’t know how I’m going to cope. What if Ivy hates me because Mama decided to keep me and not her? What if Mama hates me because I found out her secret? What if they hate each other and I’m stuck in the middle? What if Ivy’s disappointed in me and doesn’t want anything to do with me?”
I reach up and brush Rogue’s hair out of her face as I try to calm her fears, “First, I can’t imagine anyone being disappointed in you. You are bright, funny and obviously a hard worker. Second, I’ve met Ivy. She’s also charming and sweet. Chances are she’s also felt like something has been missing all of these years and she’ll probably be just as anxious to meet you.”
Rogue gives me a watery smile as she responds, “Thanks, you’re probably right. I wonder who should tell everybody? I feel like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a Lifetime movie without a script.”
“Isn’t life best done as an improv anyway?” I quip. “Seriously though, I’m here as long as you need me. Let me play facilitator, mediator or sandwich boy. I’m fine with whatever works for you. Just let me know what I can do to help,” I offer.
“Don’t you have a business to run?” Rogue asks pointedly.
I laugh at the sass in her tone. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. One of the perks I like best about being the boss is I get to decide what my priorities are. You, Ivy and your mom have just moved to the top of my list.”
“What about your other clients?” Rogue probes.
I shrug as I reply, “With the exception of the assignment that I’m literally writing code for right now, every other client can be
reassigned to employees.”
“You have employees?” she asks, startled, “I was under the impression you were a one man shop.”
I lift my shoulder in a one sided shrug as I respond, “I am if I choose to be, but I also have the flexibility to bring in as much staff as I need to if I have a large project.”
“Wow! It must be nice to be the head honcho. I can only dream of the luxury of setting my own hours,” Rogue remarks. “Actually, just cutting down to two part-time jobs instead of three would be nice.”
I squeeze her shoulders lightly as I respond, “I remember those days. When I was in college, I had a work-study job in the computer lab, I was coding on the side, I proofread papers to make extra money and I delivered pizzas. The thing I don’t remember doing is sleeping. But I got really lucky and I got in early on the phone app craze. I was able to develop an app that detects whether your iPhone or android has a keystroke logger installed.”
Unlike most people I tell this story to, Rogue’s eyes aren’t completely glazed over with boredom, nor does she look like she’s mentally trying to calculate my net worth. Instead, she seems to be just listening. What a refreshing change of pace. I feel oddly energized by that.
“Initially, I marketed it as a standalone and it did really well. Then I was approached by all three of the big virus protection companies. I did something that at the time was pretty unheard of, and I made a deal with all three companies to incorporate my technology into their existing software packages. Consequently, I found myself in a position where I don’t have to cobble jobs together anymore. In fact, realistically I probably don’t have to work another day in my life, but it’s just not the way I’m wired. For the most part, unless I have a charity project that I’m working on, I completely ignore my bank balance and let the accountants and lawyers worry about all that stuff. I pretty much live my life the way I always have with slightly upgraded housing and transportation options.”
So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2) Page 43