Chapter 6
6
Chloe lives in a Manhattan apartment that faces the Hudson River. She definitely does not have a garden.
A frigid breeze whips my face as I stare up at the towering building, at once awed and seized with vertigo. How can my twin, someone I shared a bed with, sudsed up in the bath with, have such a different life?
Her building requires fob access, which I don’t have. I don’t have a buzz code either. It’s late and there’s no one coming in and out. I wait awkwardly near the door in my baggy hoodie and jacket, backpack cutting into my shoulders. Each breath sends white clouds into the sky. I sniffle.
Something skitters in the distance, rummaging in the black trash bags and flattened cardboard boxes by the curb.
It pokes out its head. Beady black eyes. A rat. Holy shit, it’s giant. A mutant the size of my forearm. It holds me in its gaze with a forlorn expression, its impossibly fat belly chafing the pavement. Judging by its size, this creature must eat better than I do, feasting on leftovers tossed out by rich New Yorkers while I feed on stolen grocery store sandwiches. As if the world wants to shame me further, my stomach rumbles, scaring the rat away.
I rub my forehead with my sleeve and groan with exhaustion. What am I doing? I can’t believe I came all the way to New York only to wait outside Chloe’s door and be jealous of a rat. She’s probably fine. Maybe she had a brief panic attack, called me by accident, and I’m overthinking it. All the friends scattered on her socials would check up on her if something was awry. And her adoptive parents are caring in that picturesque, rich white people way: summer in the Hamptons, Christmas cards featuring matching red cashmere cardigans, calls every night to exchange I-love-you s. They’d make sure Chloe is safe.
Why did I even come?
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
I jump.
A harsh light blinds me. My heart pounds as I jerk my arms up to my eyes, shielding them from the rays. The light flickers off and I peek through my fingers.
A man stares at me, his creased eyes narrow and scrutinizing as he opens the door. He’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and a burgundy tie. The polished bronze name tag clipped above his chest pocket reads: Ramos, Security . “Miss Van Huusen, what are you doing out in the cold? Come in.”
He thinks I’m Chloe.
I don’t know why this surprises me. We are twins, and after all, we’re mistaken for each other all the time. “Thanks. I, uh… I forgot my fob.” I fake a laugh.
He doesn’t offer a chuckle of sympathy, the corner of his mustached lips twisting down in a gentle frown.
I pivot and head straight for the elevators. If he stares at me a second longer with those concerned dad eyes, I’m certain he’ll realize I’m not Chloe.
Just before I press the button, he shouts, “Wait!”
I stop dead in my tracks, heart battering my rib cage.
“A few packages came for you. Would you like to sign for them?”
I blow a breath out, calm my nerves, and spin around. “Sure.” My voice cracks but he doesn’t comment on it. I walk over to the front desk as casually as possible.
He hands me two boxes. “More PR?”
“Um. Maybe.” I sign for the packages with a scribble and hope he doesn’t notice.
“Lately, my daughter keeps askin’ me, Daddy, Daddy, when is Chloe going to give me more stuff? She loves you more than Santa!” He laughs, a deep belly laugh.
Has Chloe been giving product to his daughter? I guess it’s on-brand for her. She did “give” me a house. I wonder if she made a video about this too. Donating My PR to Less Fortunate Kids #Sustainable #Charity. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have more to give.”
He places his hand on his chest. “You’re an angel, Miss Van Huusen. An angel. I hope you’re feeling better these days.”
I smile tightly, take the packages, and make for the elevators before he can say more.
He follows in lockstep behind me, his heat on my back. Why won’t he leave me alone? He reaches over and presses the elevator button with a smile.
Oh.
I muster a weird chuckle, unused to this type of service and attention. Should I tip him?
The elevator dings and he holds the door open for me.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He presses the number twenty-seven and waves. “Have a restful night, Miss Van Huusen.”
“You too.”
He disappears behind the closing doors.
The elevator is composed of gold mirrors and matching gold handrails. My sneakers sink into the plush red carpet. The LED display ticks through the ascending numbers. My ears pop and my pulse thrums, my stomach coiling tight.