“Awe, there’s enough of me to go around, Reagan, but I don’t think your brother will approve,” Travis chuckles.
My eyes flare and dart from person to person, in quick panic. All I want is for this to stop, for my brother and Travis to move on, for the subject to change. This friendly banter—or not-so-friendly at the moment—is typical Prescott-twin activity. My brother and I have been pushing each other’s buttons since the days of long car rides to our grandparents’ lake house in the summer. We’ve always been competitive—even though our skills don’t match. I’m the one who gets straight As and takes first prize at the science fair, and Noah hits the ball over the fence in Little League. We fight over shelf space, over whose trophy, medal, certificate—whatever symbol of our achievement—gets to take up more real estate and is placed in the very center of the mantle.
But there’s something in my brother’s tone tonight—an edge that’s just a little different. Something…bitter. When I step in closer, mostly to keep my brother’s voice down, I realize he’s also working on a pretty nice buzz, the smell of whiskey from our dad’s favorite stash, strong. I’ve gotten used to this smell over the last year, too. It’s on him when he crawls into the house from parties—it was on him the night he crashed the car, too.
“You’re on pain meds, Noah. Don’t be an idiot; what are you thinking,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice a whisper, but gritting the words through my teeth so he can see how serious I am—how disappointed I am.
I can almost see it coming before I’m hit with it, but I’m not fast enough. My brother’s hand grabs my shoulder, and he pushes me out of his face.
“You’re not my fucking babysitter, Reagan! You have such an enormous stick up your ass. Always Miss Perfect. Oh, look at me, Daddy. I’m making a movie. Can I make a movie about you? Guess what, Reagan? Nobody gives a shit about your dumb-ass documentary—not even Dad! He just wants you to be busy, and he’s always complaining about how you get in the way out on the field. The coaches fucking hate that you’re in the press box. What are you going to do when you go to college and realize that the only people who think you’re talented at all are fucking related to you?”
My fingers tingling, my face red, I glance around to see dozens of eyes on me—including Nico’s. I clench my jaw to keep my emotions as even as I can, and I stand, but the little girl who doesn’t want to let her brother get away with it gets the best of me, and I let my shoulder fall just enough into my brother as I pass that I nudge his arm from his crutch, causing him to hop.
“Asshole,” I say under my breath.
“Bitch,” he says back without pause. His word comes out crisp and loud, and it stabs like a knife. I stop in my tracks instantly, my hand swelling with blood. I’ve never wanted to hit him. I’ve never hated him so much.
My eyes tear up, and I spin to let my hand fly at his face, but before I can, Nico’s stepped up to him, their faces only inches apart.
“Apologize,” Nico says.
His eyes don’t blink. He’s the boy who’s always right, and he’s delivered my brother one single expectation. As much as I should be honored, instead I’m mortified. My brother doesn’t call me names. Sometimes we don’t talk, and lately he’s been distant. We haven’t talked in days, really. But we don’t go to dark places with each other. We compete, but at the end of the day, I’m always in his corner.
Always.
My head tilts, and I look to him, his eyes hard on Nico’s, his posture rigid—not wanting to say he’s sorry, but only because he doesn’t want to give Nico the satisfaction. Well, what about me? Who gives a shit about his pissing match with Nico. This is about me!
“I hate you!”
My lips quiver when the words fall away, and my hand covers my mouth quickly, my breath a short tremble and my eyes stinging with the red I know has filled them up.
“Reagan,” Travis says, stepping closer to me, his voice suddenly sweet. Decorum matters now, because I got my feelings hurt. Now they’ll be kind.
Travis reaches for my arm, and Izzy tosses what’s left of her shake at him, the lid popping free and light brown frozen sugar spilling in heavy drops across Travis’s neck, chest, and arms.
“Shit, Izz!” he says, looking down with his arms stretched out.
My eyes grow wide while my young crush and brother’s best friend wipes away large swipes of milk-chocolate shake, letting it fling from his fingertips to the ground. I begin to giggle, and Izzy looks at me.
“Izzy, I love you,” I say, my laughter somewhere between the kind that precedes crying and genuine giddiness.