The Designated Twin

3. Chapter One

Chapter One

Lorelei

Weird things are widespread in this world.

Why do women love wearing animal print clothing (looking at you, Hadley Dawson Rawls)? What is the point of a keto diet? Who decided daylight saving time was a brilliant idea? Where does one joyfully put together a 5,000 piece puzzle in an apartment that she shares with her messy twin sister? And how do I turn down my sister’s absurd request to twin swap for her date tonight without breaking her fragile, romantic heart?

“Lucy, you know I’ve never been on a date before. I would only fumble this up for you.”

Lucy lies on her back across the cocoa-colored loveseat with our shared ice bag—the one she picked out as it’s imprinted with little crowns and hearts—over her left eye. She’d burst into the apartment ten minutes ago—knocking a few leaves off my Bird of Paradise plant that was innocently basking in the late afternoon sun under the window by the front door—in hysterics because a kid threw a tennis ball at a wall and it bounced back and hit her in the eye earlier today at the Juniper Grove Community Center where she works.

“But that’s why you should go! It can be practice for your first real date when you meet that special someone.” She says the words as if it’s the most obvious solution, but she doesn’t understand how the idea of a date sends my nervous system into a rebellion.

I have no idea how to behave romantically. In fact, the few times I’ve been interested in a guy, I’ve hidden and buried it until I got over the strange feelings. That’s another question: how in the world does Lucy enjoy those types of feelings? The sweaty hands, hard and heavy heartbeats, the stomach knots, the uncertainty… It’s all too much. But she lives to fall in love it seems.

Which makes my mission all the more impossible because her scheduled date tonight is with an actual, real-life prince. It’s the type of scenario she writes about.

“Just slap one of the many makeup products you horde like treasure onto the bruise.” It is a nasty bruise, and the swelling is atrocious. I smothered the injury in arnica gel immediately when she arrived home.

She removes the ice bag and sits up, leaning against the armrest while crossing her legs. “Look at this.” She points to her eye, her pink-polished nail inches away from accidentally touching the monstrosity. “Regardless of not having a product thick enough to cover the intense bruise, this eye will be swollen shut by the end of the night. I’m already having trouble keeping it open.”

I’m quiet as I sit on the recliner, the same chocolate color as our couch, rocking slowly while I process my sister’s request. I love her. Dearly. And normally I would find a way to move mountains for her and her happiness. But this request is too much. And ultimately, I would only decimate her chances. There’s no way Prince Finley Andersson would ask her out again after a night with me. I’m the awkward, socially clueless, brainiac, autistic woman who lacks the normal female warmth, sensitivity, and grace that my twin exudes, even if she has her more dramatic moments like right now.

“Please, Lor.” Lucy sighs as if she’s already been defeated. Which is true as of this moment. “We’ve switched before. And we’ve had a lot of fun doing it in the past.”

“But that was when we were young. And it was innocent pranks on our teachers and friends.” I think back to the times we switched in order to try each others’ high school elective classes, to trick our friend group (minus Hadley who has always had a special gift to tell us apart), and occasionally, we even fooled our parents. It was… fun. And to be honest, I haven’t had time for fun in my attempt to climb the ladder at my law firm, Donwell Family Law. Work has been my life for the past two years, and I still have a long way to go to make partner one day. I don’t have time for silliness like this. And I have never switched with Lucy for a date or to trick a guy she was into. Frankly, she never asked.

“You’ve been working nonstop, Lor. You take care of me. You put everything and everyone else before you. I know I’m asking you to do this for me, and I also know it’s an extremely selfish request.” She crawls to the other side of the couch to be closer to where I’m sitting and grabs my hand. “But this is two-fold. Yes, you would be rescuing me, but this would also be good for you. You’re twenty-five and have never been on a date. Which in itself isn’t bad, but you should get this experience with someone we can trust.”

I scoff. “How can we trust him? We’ve only met him once at Hadley’s wedding, and to be honest, I didn’t care for him much.” The arrogance that dripped in his walk and the smirk that danced across his lips, even as he ran into me and spilled a drink down my bridesmaid dress, flickers to mind. The way my skin crawled at the wet, sticky fabric clinging to my body still haunts my nightmares.

“Hadley trusts him. And we trust her.”

Valid.

“But still. Can’t you simply reschedule the date?”

Lucy lies back down and places the ice bag over her eye. “He’s a prince, Lor. I am lucky to have this date. I can’t just reschedule with a prince.”

“Why not? If he’s here in Juniper Grove, Mississippi, he must not care too much about his title and position.” Though that haughty air around him at the wedding tells me his feathers would be tickled if something didn’t go his way.

“Hadley told us why. He isn’t the crown prince, and he wants to pave his own path in life.”

I stare blankly at my twin, who can’t see me as she still has one eye covered and the other fixed on our white, textured ceiling. “Exactly. So he wouldn’t be against rescheduling.”

Lucy shoots up, dropping the ice bag, and turns that pointed glare right to me. “He is still a very rich, very mannered prince. Even in Mississippi. I don’t have it in me to reveal I have a black eye from a kid while working at a job I can’t stand because I’m not a successful romance author yet. I can’t tell him all that. I need him to like me first. Then I can confess all my failings to him.”

The anxiety and worry in her voice balls into a pit in my stomach. She doesn’t often show how much she’s struggling not having “made it” as an author yet, but I know it’s killing her. She lives and breathes writing, and furthermore, I don’t think the fiercest heartbreak would turn Lucy’s idealist love sour. Though she has her head in the clouds at times, she’s the purest, kindest soul I know. And again… I would move mountains for my younger-by-one-minute sister.

“But like I said, Lor. You work every day only to come home and work every night. You don’t even watch documentaries these days, which is still boring, but I know you consider that fun. You stick to this rigid routine and never allow yourself to step outside the parameters you’ve set. Which I get. It calms you and makes sense to you. But you can’t let autism dictate your life. You need to do something new. Different. Fun. Insane.” Her words sting because, well, they’re true. Since graduating from law school and accepting a full-time position at Donwell Family Law, work has become my identity. Occasionally I hang out with the girls, but even then, I retire early and shut myself in my room to work.

I’ve known I’m autistic since I was four, and I’ve constantly looked for ways to trick my brain into normalcy. I’m not ashamed by any means, but I also know that I can get… stuck.

And I am very much stuck in life right now.

As if sensing my change of mood, Frizzle, one of our two twin Abyssinian cats, jumps into my lap, rubbing her furry cheek against my hand. Not to be left out, Frannie, the other cat, jumps on the edge of the couch by Lucy’s feet and then springs, using Lucy’s face as a landing pad. She screeches and jolts up, throwing her ice bag onto the floor, but then she swoops Frannie into her arms, mumbling something about losing her good eye to cat claws.

“Why are you like this?” Lucy asks her, but then Frannie purrs and Lucy rubs her face against the cat’s short, reddish-orange hair. “Yeah, you’re my favorite. But don’t tell Frizzle.”

I chuckle. It’s true. Frannie and Lucy are best friends while Frizzle prefers me. We swap occasionally, but for the most part, we’ve bonded with the cat that is most like ourselves.

Speaking of swap…

“Lucy, even if I went on this date in your place tonight, it wouldn’t turn out the way you want. You know me. Finley would never text you or request a second date. I’d ruin your chances.” Frizzle’s sandpaper tongue licks my fingers, and I find the sensation oddly calming, which is not the feeling I get when I’m forced to wear clothes of that same texture.

“Lorelei, look at me.” I turn my gaze from Frizzle to her. Lucy’s head is tilted, strawberry blonde hair thrown over one shoulder, her bangs pinned back to keep the hair strands from poking her injured eye. “Yes, you’re logical and uptight and sensible and all those good things, but you are also flexible and fun and have the ability to let loose every now and then. Though you don’t show it often, you are witty and humorous. You simply let your fear of what people think get in the way of living, which results in you getting bogged down walking a tightrope of a life. And I know I’m preaching to the choir, but you can’t keep being scared of how people perceive you. I don’t believe you will bore Finley or scare him off. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t believe in you.”

Tears well in my eyes, and I hug Frizzle a little closer. She doesn’t like that, so she wiggles out of my grasp and sprints off. Much like me. Closed off to affection. Running away at the first sign of intimacy unless it’s with someone I’ve grown up with like my sister, my best friend, my parents, and Grandma Netty. I’m not even completely comfortable with my downstairs neighbor who has been frequenting my life a lot more recently, though Karoline is wonderful. It just… takes me a while.

“Do you really think I can achieve a second date with him for you?” I sniffle, pushing back the tears.

“Yes, I do,” she declares. “Of course you’ll have to play into who I am some so that he’s not confused when he actually goes on a date with me, but I do want you to have this night. Even if it’s just to practice for the real thing in the future. Even if it’s just a night you can have fun and go on a date with a prince and lay all your uptightness aside. You can just go have a good time. I trust you, Lor.”

As I contemplate her words, she relaxes back into the couch and Frannie stalks off, probably to find Frizzle. I lift myself out of the chair and squeeze onto the couch so I'm laying on my side facing Lucy. “You promise it’s just this once? And you won’t be mad if I do scare him away?”

Lucy grins and flops to her side to face me, shifting the couch a little with her movement. She uses the hand not tucked under her head to play with a strand of hair that has fallen out of my ponytail. “Yes and no. Just this once, and I won’t get mad. If it’s not meant to be, then it won’t be. Simple as that. I’m trying to live in that mindset these days.”

She blinks, though the injured eye remains halfway closed. Her hazel irises, often set in a beautiful green color, sparkle. At least, the one I can see.

I don’t know if I believe her, but she seems to have faith in me. That notion alone is enough to bolster my spirits and confidence. I have zero plans to make this night about me, but at least I could get a good meal out of helping my sister. Also, it gives me the chance to vet this man out for myself to make sure he is worthy of my sister. Prince or not, if he doesn’t measure up, I will find a way to push him out. I’m tired of seeing my sister heartbroken over loser men who think she’s so naive and innocent that they can have their way with her heart.

I inhale deeply until my lungs scream for me to let it out. I tuck my face into my arm so as to not blow the hot air onto Lucy. Then I say, “Fine. But just this once. And I am not giving myself bangs to match yours…”

Lucy rolls over me until she hits the floor, then she stands beside me. I take her previous position of lying on my back and staring at the ceiling. Well, she’s leaning over me now, so I’m mostly staring at a blackened eye and pearly white teeth. “But you’ll need to borrow my wardrobe. Yours is too… corporate.”

I groan and verbally digress, but internally, I’m curious to see what I would look like in Lucy’s feminine flair and soft makeup. Will I pull it off as well as she does?

“Just no wool or polyester or other scratchy fabrics. Or satin. It’s not quite like silk.”

Two hours, tons of bickering, and eight outfits later, I have my answer.

Yes.

I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror. She’s not Lucy, but she’s also not Lorelei. My strawberry blonde waves fall gently over one shoulder. The blush pink, cap-sleeved dress somehow compliments my freckled skin without bringing out the red underneath. The waistline fits perfectly, and the hemline rests snugly below my knees. Matching pink closed-toed heels adorn my feet, and I know I’ll regret letting her win that round by the end of the night.

“You look…”

“It’s too much, right? I should change into pants.”

Lucy places a hand around my waist and leans into my side. “No, Lorelei. You should never wear pants again. You look like a true princess. Polished, professional, and pretty.”

I squirm at her words, and everything inside me screams to strip off the dress and grab my trusted black pants and white collared shirt. But tonight’s goal is to be someone other than me, to be Lucy. And to be Lucy, I have to dress like Lucy. This dress is made of a silky material that doesn’t cause my skin to crawl, which is the only reason I am agreeing to wear it.

“Seriously, Lor. I look like a twelve-year-old girl when I wear this dress, which is why I don’t wear it anymore. But you? It’s in the way you carry yourself. You make this dress look hot. Oh, and here’s my ring. Wear it. You know I always have it on.”

She gives me her silver band that she wears daily on her left index finger. I don’t quite like the hard metal around my finger, but I’m doing this for her.

After I slip the ring on, Lucy slaps my butt, effectively ruining the moment between us. I side-eye her before returning to the woman in the mirror.

If I had a tiara, I might mistake myself for a princess, too.

Shaking the thought away, I grab my black purse from my dresser (I refused to use one of Lucy’s pink ones. There is only so much pink a girl can wear), fill up my white to-go cup, tell my cats and plants goodbye, and head out the door.

Lucy stands on the balcony of the apartment, waving frantically and blowing kisses my way. Her show of affection doesn’t end until I’ve pulled out of the parking lot and lost her in my rearview mirror.

I type in the name of the restaurant I’m supposed to meet Finley at. (I had Lucy text him during the two insufferable hours of constant changing to let him know the plans changed from him picking me up to me meeting him.) It’s forty minutes away, and that puts me arriving thirty minutes early.

I have an hour and ten minutes to morph my brain into Lucy and calm my nerves.

Grabbing my phone, I turn on Taylor Swift’s 1989 album. I’m not a fan, but Lucy is, and this is her favorite album. As lyrics about a tall and handsome man, staring at sunsets, red lips, and wild dreams play, I’m lost in a fantasy where I can freely shed my responsibilities, uptight premonitions, and odd brain.

A fantasy where I can simply be and freely feel.

As I arrive in the parking lot of Club Paris, a high-end french restaurant that I rarely go to, my phone dings with a text from my sister.

Oh, I forgot to mention. Finley doesn’t know that we know he is a prince. Keep it a secret. I want to see how long it takes for him to tell me.

Crap.

“I’m too logical to lie, Lucy. I don’t see the point of lies. You know that.” I croak to the screen. Then I mumble, “Why do you think it is hard for me to pretend to be you?” One of my autistic traits is that I mimic those around me, but when I’m masking, I hardly realize I’m doing it. When it comes to actively living a straight lie, well, I don’t think I can do it.

Tucking my phone into my purse, I get out of the car and shut the door. Before I walk away, I use the side mirror to smile, altering it until it’s like my twin is smiling back at me from the mirror, somehow trying to capture her warmth and sweetness and gentleness.

“Lucy?” a masculine voice calls. I ignore the sound, trying to fix my face to reflect my sister’s. We might be twins, but the way we carry ourselves is opposite as can be.

“Lucy, is that you?” Oh. Right. That’s supposed to be me…

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I snap my head towards the voice and spot Prince Finley Andersson waving to me as he leans on a dark-colored mustang from three cars over. My stomach drops at the sight of him walking towards me. Why is he here thirty minutes early? I arrived this early to give me time to adjust to my surroundings and morph into Lucy.

Precious time he’s now stealing from me.

Why did I let my sister talk me into this? How can I pretend to be Lucy when her world is hues of pinks and purples while my world is one giant blob of black and gray? I’m going to crush her chance with this guy, and I can only pray she doesn’t hold a grudge against me for my lack of socialization in a dating situation.

Finley stands in front of me wearing an admittedly dazzling smile with gorgeous blue eyes, a white button-up, and feather gray dress pants that fit him well. His blond hair is styled yet loose as it falls in front of his perfect face. He doesn’t move like a man from Mississippi; his shoulders are set firmly back and the upward tilt of his knife-edge sharp jawline gives him that air of superiority I remember from Hadley’s wedding. His gait is confident and stiff.

Yes, focus on that. Now, breathe. What would Lucy say?

“Oh, hi, Pri—” I cough, already screwing this up. “Finley.” My voice sounds like an off-brand Barbie, and I hate myself for it. Finley, however, seems to think my greeting is adequate enough. Lucy might not question it, but I have to… “What are you doing here thirty minutes early?”

He snickers, and the sound grates against my bones. What’s so funny about asking why he’s here early?

“I could ask you the same thing. Seems we both value being on time. I have a reservation. Are you ready to go in?” He bends his arm at a ninety-degree angle out beside him. I’ve seen enough romance films alongside Hadley and Lucy to know I’m supposed to loop my arm through his, but I stare at his arm as if it might set me afire if I get too close.

I don’t touch people unless I am super close with them. I’ve never touched a man outside of shaking hands and the occasional hug of my father when I see him. This feels… intimate.

“Are you coming?” Finley Andersson has the nerve to wink at me at that moment, a smirk forming on his perfectly symmetrical face. I swallow the bees swarming my throat and loop my arm through his.

And set me afire, it does. Where the bare skin of my forearm touches the sleeve of his crisp, white button-up shirt, it’s like a star exploded, radiating burning heat that spreads through my arm, up my neck, and floods my cheeks. Highly uncomfortable at best and immensely embarrassing at worst. Though, I don't feel the instant revulsion or prickly feelings that I typically experience when I touch someone I’m not ultra familiar with. Curious…

Finley must notice the blush through my fair skin. The smirk on his face deepens, and he boasts an expression as if he’s used to this sort of reaction from women.

But little does he know that this isn’t because I’m enamored with the man. It’s because it’s the first time I’ve touched a man in this capacity. Why did it have to be an arrogant, cocky prince?

Oh, Lucy May Spence. You owe me big time.