2. Bridgette
Bridgette
“ D on’t hate me,” I say, wincing. “But I think I liked it better when the bed was on the left side of the room.”
Instead of bitching or even complaining, my brother just laughs and wipes at the sweat on his brow with the hem of his tee. “Of course you do. All right, we lift on three?”
I follow his lead and we haul the upholstered queen bed—mattress and all—across my dorm room.
Granted, we don’t have far to go, but I’m sweaty and gross from moving and unpacking boxes.
I’m also grateful for my brother’s help.
He nods in my direction, letting me know I can let go of my end of the bed.
Brannon may have bulked up this summer, packing muscle onto his six-foot one-inch frame.
I’m only a few inches shorter than he is and a good fifty or sixty pounds heavier, so I’m not the type to sit on the floor folding clothes or organizing my toiletries while he does all the heavy lifting.
But I had training at the salon this morning, so my energy’s starting to lag a little.
Bran finishes maneuvering the bed into place, then steps back to admire his handiwork. “Yeah, it definitely looks better on this side,” he confirms. “You know, like I said it did twenty minutes ago.”
Rolling my eyes, I smile. “Yeah, yeah, I should have listened to you, blah, blah. You’re a genius and I was a fool not to defer to your vast experience as a dorm-room designer.”
Bran barks out a laugh as he flops down into my desk chair. “Literally no one we know would call you a fool and me a genius.”
I’ve been digging through my various bags and boxes to locate a set of sheets, but I stop what I’m doing so I can turn toward him and pin him with a glare.
“You stop that right now, Brannon Patrick Mikalski,” I say, my voice as stern as I can make it.
“You are no fool. You’re the best brother in the entire world and the best defenseman Bainbridge has ever seen. ”
Wearing a smug grin, he pulls out his phone. “I’m texting Brody now to tell him you just admitted I’m your favorite. And that you said he sucks.”
“I said no such thing!”
“If Brody’s so great, then why isn’t he here helping you move in?” Bran asks, spinning around in my chair.
“He’s nine. If he came here to lend his non-existent muscles, mom and dad would be here, too, and?—”
My brother tosses his phone down onto my desk like it might burst into flames at any second. “Enough said.”
I can’t blame him. Our parents are…well, let’s just say there’s a reason I decided to move to another state to earn my associate’s degree in business.
It would have been a lot cheaper to live at home and go to community college, but being two and a half hours away from home is worth the tuition.
Bran earned an athletic scholarship and came to Bainbridge right after we graduated high school.
I stayed with our parents, working my way through beauty school and saving every spare penny.
After two years, though, I simply couldn’t take it anymore, especially without Bran there to protect me.
Don’t get me wrong. Our childhood wasn’t violent or traumatic.
Raised in suburban New Jersey, we grew up in a nice neighborhood.
We lived on a freaking cul-de-sac. Our parents provided well for us, even gifting us a car on our sixteenth birthday.
Of course, they insisted Bran take the car with him when he left for college, which meant I had to work extra shifts at the cosmetics counter to pay for my own vehicle.
Looking back, Bran was more pissed about that little stunt than I was.
He really is the best brother anyone could ask for, and it’s not his fault that our parents play favorites like they’re spinning a roulette wheel.
The truth is that neither Brannon nor I have ever lived up to the expectations they have for us, and I doubt we ever will, despite the fact that he’s got NHL scouts looking at him, and I’m working my way toward earning a degree that will enable me to open up my own salon and day spa in the next few years.
We’re pretty great, if I’m being honest, but it took me longer than it should have to come to that realization, and Bran still struggles.
I’d say that we were never enough for our parents, but the fact is that we were too much.
Bran’s ADHD has always been more than my mom could handle.
All his life, he’s been told he’s too energetic, too loud, too distracted, too much.
Even though we’re twins, we’re opposites.
I’m calm and focused. Level-headed and logical.
His persona may be too big, according to our mother, but me?
I’m just too big. And if I said those words out loud, Bran would ream me out the same way I scolded him for calling himself a fool.
Our mom is so delicate and petite that Bran and I were delivered early via c-section because her body just wasn’t able to deliver two big babies.
And let’s be clear: it’s not my height she has a problem with.
Becky Mikalski dreamed of having a pretty little girl in her image and likeness.
The red hair, freckles, and green eyes certainly come from her Irish roots, but that’s about all she gave me genetically.
In my mom’s delusional world, women are supposed to be dainty, not strong. Thin, not solid. Delicate, not curvy.
It’s taken a while, but I’ve gotten to a place where I love my body.
I’m proud of every dip and curve, every roll and dimple.
The size twenty-two dresses in my closet will never be replaced with size two versions, and that’s perfectly fine with me.
Maybe that’s what bothers my mom the most—I’m not apologizing for my size, and I’m not trying to change it.
After a year in therapy and a million late-night phone calls with my brother, I realized that I didn’t need to change my body.
I needed to change my mindset. And that wasn’t something I could do while I was living under my parents’ roof, not with mom’s constant digs and remarks, and the supplements and shakes she kept insisting would be the key to unlocking a better life.
I’ve only just moved into my college dorm, and my life is better already.
“Sound good?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been lost in my own thoughts while Bran’s been talking to me. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I was asking if you wanted me to run down to Drip to get us some coffee? I know you were up early, so I figured you could use a boost. And I forgot to take my meds this morning, so I’ll mainline caffeine until it’s time for my next dose. That’s totally medically sound, by the way.”
I’m not so sure about that, but he’s a gown-ass man who can manage his own medication, so I keep my comments to myself. “Coffee sounds great, but I’ll walk with you. I mapped out where all my classes are, so I should be good to go, but can we do a dry run of my schedule?”
Bran shakes his head. “How are we even related? But yeah, we totally can.”
I grab my cross-body and my phone, bumping his shoulder as we head for the door. “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t map out the route to your classes before your first day here? How did you know where to go?”
“Easy. I just followed JT.”
“Did you have the same classes? The same major?” I ask as we approach the stairwell.
Bran grins. “Nope. But we do now. Turns out you can’t really get a degree in cybersecurity if you take kinesiology classes. And if you want a grade for a class, the school likes it better if you’re actually registered for the course. They don’t just want you showing up. Who knew?”
I’m laughing as we step out into the sunshine. Before we even make it across the courtyard, we’re accosted by a gaggle of women. Well, we aren’t accosted, he is.
“Mickey!” They shriek, piling onto him like he’s got possession of the football and they need to recover it in the final seconds of the big game.
Not that this bleached-blonde brigade is under the mistaken impression that my brother plays football.
Oh, no. These girls are hockey fans. Or, at least, hockey player fans.
I know the type well, and they all fit the bill, pawing at his arms like he’s a wild animal and they’re aspiring lion-tamers.
And for the record, as a licensed stylist, I have no issue with color or highlights.
They account for more than half of my income.
What I do have an issue with is bad dye jobs, and I can practically hear their fried strands crying out for conditioner.
“Ladies,” he says, with a dip of his chin. They fawn and giggle at his manners, completely oblivious to the fact that he doesn’t remember their names.
“Where are you headed? Is it true that the hockey team got a new place? Wanna give us a tour?” The tallest of the trio is firing questions at him while her friends are practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of spending an hour with my brother.
If I thought he was remotely interested, I’d happily bow out and make my way through campus and to the coffee shop on my own.
I’m capable of reading a map, after all.
But he’s squinting and rubbing the back of his neck—all telltale signs that needs my help to escape the situation he’s found himself in.
I’ve been helping Bran fend off unwanted attention for nearly half my life now.
And no, I never call him Mickey. His name was literally my first word, so he’ll always be Bran to me, just like I’ll always be Birdie to him, even though I’ve been going by Bridgette since high school.
“We really should get going if we don’t want to be late,” I say.
Bran offers a half-hearted smile to the lovelorn ladies. “Sorry, I’ve got plans with my sister,” he says, nodding in my direction and forcing his fans to acknowledge that I’m standing here. “I bet we’ll have a party soon, though. You know Ollie—he’s probably planning something already.”