by J. M. Paul
“What are you going to tell Connor?” Cami breaks the silence.
Memories of this morning flash in my mind when I was with Connor in his childhood bedroom, hiding from his parents like guilty teenagers, and my reaction to seeing Nicholas’s call. His father saved me, and when we made it to the kitchen, there was too much commotion for serious conversations. Connor was called into Harry’s for some kitchen emergency, and I made my excuses to get home.
“Connor and I were together when Nicholas called.”
“No shit. What did you tell him?” Cami blinks, her eyes wide.
“Nothing. I was too stunned to say anything.” I’m still flabbergasted. “When he asked who Nicholas was, I told him I would tell him later. He persisted, but we got interrupted by his parents.”
“Saved by the bell,” Cami mumbles.
I nod as I spin a piece of my hair around my finger until the skin turns beet red.
“Noles.” Cami waits until my eyes meet hers. “I love you, and you’re my favorite. I’ll always be on your side …”
“But?” I prompt.
“But … don’t dick around with Connor.” She looks down at her hands and then back at me. “He’s one of the good ones, you know?”
I continue to study her to figure out where she’s going with this.
“You probably know him better than me”—a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth—“but he’s head over heels for you. Anyone can see it. So, if you’re not serious about him, let him down gently.”
I sit up straighter. “What makes you think I’m not serious about him?”
“Well …” She hesitates. “You’ve been through a lot in the last couple of years, more than anyone should go through in a lifetime, and you’re just now starting to swim with your head above water instead of almost drowning every second.”
I still feel like I’m drowning most days.
“I’m all for you having a fling, several in fact, and Connor used to be the player of all players, who I thought would never change his ways—”
“He had Emily,” I interrupt.
Cami rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but I think her breaking his heart gave him an even bigger and better heart. One he’s undoubtedly given to you.” She squeezes my hand. “He’s changed for you, Noles. He’s serious about you, and you two are good together. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”
“I don’t want to either, but you know what, CC?” I pull my legs up under me. “Life isn’t easy, it isn’t guaranteed, and if we don’t put ourselves out there to experience new and frightening things, then we’re not growing. I’ve been hurt so many times and so deeply, my wounds are still bleeding, but that doesn’t mean I should stop living. My life came to a dead stop two years ago, and for the first time, I want to start moving again, to wade myself out of this sorrow and pain.”
I exhale a shaky breath.
“Do I like Connor? Definitely. But do I know where our relationship’s going? No.” My eyes wander over to the pity tree. “I still have issues and messiness in my life that I need to clean up, but I hope he’s willing to stick around while I continue to pick up the pieces of me.”
The washing machine whirs in the background, and the heat kicks on. When I turn my attention to Cami, her lips are parted, and there’s a look of awe in her eyes.
“What?” I question.
“There’s a reason you’re a writer. Hurry”—she jokingly shoos me with her hands—“go write that shit down. It’s gold, Jerry, gold.”
I shake my head at her Seinfeld reference. A few years ago, she forced me to binge-watch every episode with her. I’d thought I would hate it, but she’d told me I would love it. Cami won that round.
“You’re insane.”
“I’m a musician. We’re all mad here, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” She kisses me on the cheek before she grabs our bowls of melted ice cream and heads into the kitchen.
When she pops back into the living room, she asks, “What time is it?”
I squint at the clock. “Three oh seven.”
“Shit!” She scowls. “I have to get ready for my gig.” She blows a piece of her fiery-red hair out of her face. “You up to coming tonight?”
“Nah. I have to work on an article that’s due tomorrow.” It’s the truth, but I could make the time to go to Harry’s if I wanted. But, instead, I’m being a chicken and bowing out, so I don’t have to face Connor’s inquisitions regarding Nicholas’s phone call this morning.
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t buy my bullshit.
I bat my eyelashes and pull my computer onto my lap, patting the top for emphasis.
She huffs before she disappears down the hall.
After she leaves in a flurry of commotion because—big surprise—she’s running late, I really do set to work on a few different articles. Christmas is coming, and I have presents I plan to purchase this year—unlike last year.
Before I know it, I’m cloaked in darkness with the only light emanating from the lit tree in the corner and the screen of my laptop.
A sudden banging on my front door almost has my computer flying onto the floor.
“What the hell?”
I glance at the time. It’s after midnight, and I’m wearing a rejuvenating face mask, and my hair is making out with some hydrating full-fat mayonnaise. I’m not exactly guest-ready.
A thunderous booming explodes through the room as my door vibrates again.
Who the hell is at my door at this time of night?
“Noel?” Connor’s voice sounds from behind the wood.
I close my eyes and fight with my conscience to woman up and face him or to slink into my room and act like I don’t know he’s here. Never one to run from difficult situations, I close my laptop, rise to my feet, and tiptoe back into my bedroom. I’ll deal with Connor tomorrow after I get my head on straight.
While I’m in my bathroom, brushing my teeth after a quick shower, I hear several text messages chime in on my phone, and then it rings before going to voice mail.
I spit into the sink, rinse my mouth, and shut off the light as I stumble in the dark to my bed.
Connor: I’m on your doorstep. Are you awake?
Connor: I guess not. Call me tomorrow. x
Connor: Miss you. xx
A happy shiver vibrates around my chest at his messages, but since I’m supposed to be sleeping, I don’t text him back.
Next, I listen to the voice message from an unknown number.
“I thought you’d answer if you didn’t know it was me.” My fingers cover my lips as Nicholas’s deep voice hums down the line. “I know it’s late, but can you please call or text my phone? Not this number. Make sure you call my number.” He goes quiet for a few seconds. “We need to talk, Noel. I know I have so much to explain, and I’ll tell you what I can. I’d like to meet tomorrow for lunch, dinner, whatever works for you.” Another pause. “Please.”
The phone goes silent.
I lie back in bed with my cell on my chest, staring up at the dark ceiling.
After such a long period of silence, what could Nicholas possibly want now? What changed to make him reach out after abandoning me?
As much as I think he deserves to suffer, to feel an iota of the misery he’s caused me these last four years without contact, it’s not in me. I’m too curious as to why he’s reaching out, and I’m too drawn to him. Something deep within me craves its missing part.
Before I lose my nerve, I tap out a quick text.
Me: Coffee tomorrow at 9 a.m. at Stir Crazy.
Nicholas: I’ll be there. Love you, Jelly.
Tears spring to my eyes at the use of our nickname. He’s being cute, familiar, and open, and it cracks something inside me. It feels like a portion of the armor I’ve built around myself is being chipped away, and I’m not ready for that to happen so soon—not until I know what he wants and he explains himself.
Me: See you tomorrow, Bean.
I turn my phone off, so I’m not te
mpted to keep rereading the text messages from Nicholas and Connor. If I want my mind clear tomorrow, I need to get a good night’s rest.
Rolling over, I pull the blankets above my head, close my eyes, and will myself to sleep.
The sandman was not my bestie last night. In fact, we weren’t even on speaking terms.
Selfish bastard.
As a result of my sleep deprivation, I’m sitting in Stir Crazy Coffee Houz and downing my third cup of java. Maybe, if I drink enough caffeine, I’ll give myself a heart attack, and I won’t have to face whatever it is Nicholas wants to discuss with me.
I’m a thinker.
I spin my mug around and around on the rustic wooden table and bounce my leg so furiously, the other patrons keep giving me the side-eye.
He’s twenty minutes late, and the Nicholas I knew was never late.
My shoulders slump when I realize I’m being stood up. I shake my head at my stupid, hopeful self and down the rest of my coffee. With a loud reverberation, I push my chair back from the table to stand and leave.
“You’re not bolting, are you?” The sound of his deep, raspy voice freezes me in place.
I squeeze my eyes closed and will myself to find the strength to harden my features, so he’s unable to read my every emotion.
When my gaze lifts to meet his familiar brown eyes, it’s as if something that’s been displaced inside me clicks back into position. Like everything that has been wrong or missing is suddenly right or found.
“Do you feel that?” he murmurs.
Words escape me, so I nod.
“It’s weird, right?” He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.
We continue to study each other, cataloging every feature to see if anything’s changed over the years. I take in his dark hair—he’s dyed it back to his natural color since I saw him on Thanksgiving—his bright brown eyes, his strong jaw and chin. Everything seems the same. Except for the barely noticeable creases around his eyes and mouth, his short hair, and the stubble on his face, it’s like I’m looking into a mirror.
“It does feel strange but also right,” I finally answer.
“That it does.” He places his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his fists.
Gusts of cold air circle us as customers come and go, the sweet smells of roasted beans dancing around the space. The bell over the door dings, people chatter, and the constant hum of a machine surrounds us. Snow gently falls outside, but the weatherman promised it would pick up later in the day.
“How have you been, sis?” Nicholas finally says.
I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest to ward off the chill. “I’ve been better, bro. But I think the real question is, how the hell have you been? Or better yet, where the hell have you been, and why are you just now contacting me? After all these years?” I glare at my fraternal twin.
Nicholas sighs and slouches in his seat. He scratches his chin, and his jaw twitches, giving away the fact that he’s trying to decide if he should tell me the truth or lie. Those are Nicholas’s tells.
He leans forward and rests his forearms on the marked wood. “That’s not really where I want to start.”
“Too bad. I think I deserve answers as to why you suddenly fell off the face of the earth.”
I won’t back down and make any part of this easy for him. Nicholas left me high and dry when we had never been separated for more than a few days since birth. He doesn’t get the easy road. He can climb uphill both ways in his explanation.
His cheeks expand as he blows out a breath. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me? What the hell from?” I don’t need to be shielded from anything, except my own family apparently. They are the ones who left me scarred.
“I got mixed up with the … wrong crowd.” His eyes roam the premises to see if anyone’s paying attention to our conversation, and as in most cases, people are too wrapped up in themselves to notice anyone else.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not breaking news.” I unwind my arms and shove my cup away from me, and then I drum my fingers on the table. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
Nicholas reaches across the surface and covers my hand with his, lightly squeezing it. “I never meant to hurt you.”
There’s something sacred about our connection that can’t be explained in normal terms. We’re twins. We developed side by side in our mother’s womb, and up until a few years ago, we did everything with each other. I never felt complete unless we were together. And, even though we’ve been separated for so long, the bond is still there, still overpowering.
I pull away from him and tuck my hands under my legs. “Bullshit.”
“Jelly,” Nicholas says.
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss.
“I’ve always called you that.”
“That was before you left, when I had a brother, a twin, a partner in crime in everything I did. Jelly Bean doesn’t make sense without the two together, and you left.” I fight back the urge to cry.
“Noel, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” I shake my head. “Just say what you need to say.”
Nicholas sighs and runs a hand through his hair. After several seconds, he leans forward, his brown eyes seeping into mine. With his voice so low that I can barely hear him, he says, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I sequestered myself because the FBI wanted me.”
Questionable Dealings
“What?” I exclaim, my eyes going wide.
“Shh, keep your voice down.” Nicholas lowers his head as if he doesn’t want anyone to see him.
When I look around the space, I realize it’s pretty much empty, except for the two of us.
There’s a lady sitting at a table by the door and the two workers behind the counter. They’re all doing their own thing.
“What do you mean, the FBI wanted you, Nicholas? What did you do?” I hiss through my teeth. “And why are you just now telling me this?”
“I’m sorry. What was I supposed to tell you? That I fucked up royally and had to pay my dues?” He frowns.
“Yes.” My hands flail into the air, but I quickly rest them in my lap at Nicholas’s glare.
“Noel, we have this weird relationship, a tie that’s unexplainable and rare. You always looked at me with such wonderment and pride, and”—he releases a long exhale and grips the back of his neck—“I couldn’t tell you what was going on because I didn’t really understand what I’d gotten myself into in the first place.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t keep you, Eve, Mom, or Dad safe at that point, and I couldn’t stand to see the look of disappointment back then that I see in your eyes right now.”
I turn my head and squeeze my lids closed.
The FBI! What the hell has he done?
When I think I have my features cleared, I face him. Brown eyes meeting brown eyes.
Nicholas studies me for a moment before his rigid frame relaxes slightly.
“Why were you wanted by the FBI, Nicholas?”
“It’s a really long story.”
“I have time.” I pull one of my legs under me and cross my arms on the table, looking at him with arched brows.
He swallows, shifts in his chair, and glances back at the counter. “I need coffee and some food.” He nudges his chin toward my forgotten mug. “You want anything?”
“Do I need it?” I arch a brow, curious as to how bad his story is going to be.
“Probably.” He shrugs.
“Then, yeah.”
We both stand at the same time.
“Sit. I’ve got this.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “It’s the least I can do.”
“I’ve no intention of paying. I have to use the restroom.” All that coffee I drank earlier is hitting me.
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been here the whole time. You shouldn’t have left.” I give him a semi–bitch face before I stomp back to the fa
cilities.
When I return, Nicholas is seated at our table with two cups of steaming liquid between us.
“They’ll bring the bagels when they’re toasted,” he says after I sit.
To give myself something to do, I lift the mug into my hands and let the warmth seep into my chilled bones.
Nicholas is staring at the table, and I’m watching the big snowflakes fall to the ground outside.
The girl from behind the counter delivers our bagels, and Nicholas takes a humongous bite of his while I pick at mine.
“So?” I glance at him.
His shoulders fall with a sigh. “I hate every second of this story, Jelly, so you’re getting the condensed version, okay?”
I blink at him.
“Before I start, I want to apologize for lying to you, for leaving, for hurting you.” Sincerity is written in every feature.
“Just tell me what happened, Bean.”
He rubs his hands down his face and then takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “As we established, I got involved with the wrong group toward the end of high school.” Nicholas takes a hesitant sip from his cup. “I didn’t know at the time, but they were involved in some shady … dealings.”
My head jerks back, and the expression on my face must give away my thoughts.
“It wasn’t drugs.” He’s quick to clarify. “I’ve never touched that stuff.”
“Then, what were the questionable dealings?”
“Illegal gambling.” He rubs his jaw. “Bookies.”
I inhale a deep breath.
Compared to the many ideas floating around in my head—drugs, sex trafficking, and the like—gambling doesn’t sound horrible.
“Do you have a gambling problem?” I question.
I don’t remember Nicholas betting on anything while we were growing up, but I wasn’t always around—especially when he was hanging out with his friends.
Nicholas hesitates, making me think he’s not certain how to answer.
“No,” he says quietly. “I placed several bets on some games and fights, trying to make quick extra cash. The first wager was great, but the next several were not. I didn’t have enough money to cover my losses.” He shifts. “That’s what started my involvement with the Ten—” He clears his throat. “The group I was mixed up in.”