As soon as I heard the front door shut, I threw on running shoes, shoved some clothes into my Army rucksack, and grabbed my keys. I locked up the house and jumped into my Jeep—a beat-up ’85 CJ my dad and I were going to fix up but never got around to for obvious reasons.
I did all of that—dressing, packing, and locking up—with working limbs. Perfectly healthy limbs. As I took the steering wheel, the shiny piece of red metal on my left wrist caught my eye. Things were happening that made no sense, and the feeling was too close to how I’d felt after my dad died. My gut was telling me to move, because moving—running, hiking, driving, any kind of movement—always helped to chill me out. It gave me perspective, and I needed that badly. I backed out of the driveway, took the freeway south, and then just … drove.
When I pulled up to my sister’s college apartment complex three hours later, nothing made any more sense. I didn’t have a new perspective.
And I had not chilled out.
*
My sister’s college dorm was on the second floor of a new housing unit on the edge of the Cal Poly campus, with green hills and trails all around, a heated swimming pool, and a sand volleyball court in the center quad. A luxury resort, pretty much.
No one answered when I buzzed her on the intercom system and I’d left my phone at home like an idiot so I went around back, thinking I’d climb her balcony. With any luck, the glass slider would be unlocked.
A girl with blue-streaked hair was painting her toenails on the patio of the apartment beneath my sister’s. She set the red polish on a stack of textbooks by her feet and looked up at me.
This time I was ready. Mrs. C, Jackson, and my mom’s reactions had one thing in common—me. I’d been riled with that burning anger around them, so maybe I was affecting them? It was insane, but it was also the only guess I had.
I raised my hands, showing her I meant no harm. “Hey, how’s it going?” Inside, I was begging her to stay calm, grasping for inner peace with everything I had, visualizing tranquility, finding my happy place, all that, and bingo.
She smiled.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Anna Blake’s brother. Gideon.”
“Her twin, the Army guy?”
“Her twin, the Army guy.”
She checked me out, which was the only genuinely good thing that had happened to me in a solid week, and introduced herself as Joy.
“You don’t look very much like her.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, she’s prettier than I am. I try not to get jealous.”
Joy’s smile went wider. “You’re like Luke and Leia, kind of.”
“We get that sometimes. Mind if I use your railing? Anna’s not there yet.”
“Go ahead. Use whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” I tossed my ruck up to the second-floor balcony. Then I jumped, grabbing the bars above me, and swung myself up. Not bad for a guy with a broken arm and leg.
“Gideon?” Joy peered up from below. “We’re having some people over later. You should come by.”
I thanked her again. A party sounded like just what I needed to get my mind off things.
The sliding door to my sister’s place was unlocked and slid right open, which was both good and bad. Anna really should’ve known better. I slipped inside and froze when I heard the snuffling sounds of someone crying.
Dropping my duffel, I rushed to Anna’s room and found her rolled in a ball on her bed, her eyes pressed shut like she was trying to keep in the tears, her phone gripped in her hand.
“Anna?” Sitting on the bed, I put my hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
She shot away with a yelp. “Gideon?” Her eyes moved over me, like she couldn’t believe I was real, then she threw her arms around my neck. “I’ve been so worried. Mom said you’d broken your arm and your leg. She said you almost died.”
“I know,” I said, hugging her back. “I’m fine, Banana. I’m all right.” I was all right—everywhere except in the head.
She drew back and studied me. Like I’ve said, Cordero, we don’t look much alike. Not just our coloring. Anna’s pretty skinny. Not very athletic. She’d kill me if she heard me tell you that. And I’m … Well. You’re looking at me. I look like my dad. Like my dad did. His height and build.
The only thing Anna and I have in common is our dad’s eyes. Light blue. Same shape too, with the downward tilt at the sides. People call them soulful eyes or smiling eyes. Or Paul Newman eyes—old people always say that. But to me they’re the eyes of someone who listens with everything they’ve got when you’re talking, which is exactly my sister and it was my dad, too. So seeing Anna now, it felt good but it also made me miss my dad even more than when I’d been at home, which sucked. I’d shared a womb with my sister and almost every day of my life since. I didn’t love how hard it was just to look at her.
Anna shook her head, her expression pleading for answers I didn’t have. “Was the accident not as bad as they thought?”
“The initial reports might’ve made it sound worse. And I’m still kind of sore,” I said, though I wasn’t.
“Worse by a lot. I didn’t think you’d get hurt training.”