4. Noa
NOA
“Late!” Aiden declares when I arrive at his Los Feliz backhouse, wrapping me in one of his classic bear hugs.
“I know, I know. Stella–”
His hand flies up, silk tie-dye robe swishing with fervor. “Nope, no, don’t want to hear your excuses about the flavor fascist, just want to rag on you for not being on time.”
He ushers me inside, into his space filled with colorful paintings of psychedelic landscapes, papier mache cross-bred animal masks, and shadow boxes containing vintage trinkets and anal beads alike.
I may seem like someone who marches to the beat of their own drum, ice cream PhD and all, but once you meet Aiden, any illusion of me being the free-spirited twin goes away.
For most of our lives, Aiden has had one and three-quarter inches on me in height, and about a hundred inches on me in gumption.
We both inherited our dad’s Jew-fro, but while mine’s a dense, dark brown cloud, his is a riotous mass of fiery orange curls that refuse to be tamed.
When he started testosterone in college, he grew a ginger beard to match, which is currently groomed into a hip stache.
An artist down to the very fibers of his being, Aiden has never shied away from being bold and outspoken when it comes to the singular vision of his creative work. I shudder to think of how he would have taken Stella’s dismissal of the mango ice cream had he been in my shoes.
“So what’s for dinner?” I ask, collapsing onto his vintage velvet couch. “Please tell me you actually cooked something this time.”
Aiden fixes me with that look, the one that means trouble is brewing behind the hazel eyes we both got from Mom.
“I was thinking…” he drawls, twirling the tail of his mustache around his finger, “we could grab Leo’s Tacos instead?”
“Aiden, nooooo…” I groan, already knowing where this is going.
Leo’s Tacos isn’t just about the amazing al pastor–it’s code for hitting up The Velvet Tongue afterward, one of the only full-time lesbian bars in LA.
Usually, I’m all for sipping Old Fashioneds and admiring the walls covered in sapphic artwork, some of which Aiden contributed, but tonight?
“I’m exhausted. Stella demolished my latest version of the mango flavor, and I’ve been on my feet since–”
Aiden flops down on the couch beside me, bouncing on the overstuffed cushions. “We haven’t been out in forever! And Septum Piercing Danya is DJing tonight, and–” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I heard through the grapevine that your friend Casey might stop by.”
I shoot him a glare. “Casey’s not my friend, she’s my ex. And that’s exactly why I don’t want to–”
“But you’re still following each other on Gramsta,” he interrupts, already reaching for his phone. “And she liked your post about the lavender honeycomb ice cream last week. That’s practically a marriage proposal in lesbian terms.”
“Just because I haven’t blocked her on everything doesn’t mean I want to run into her on purpose!”
He ignores me, continuing to scroll. “Oh look, she just posted a story from Bar Lo-Fi. That’s, what, five minutes from The Velvet Tongue?”
I press my face into one of his throw pillows–this one with an anatomically correct heart embroidered in trans flag colors–and groan.
The problem with Aiden is that once he gets like this, all frenetic energy and persuasive charm, resistance is futile.
He’s been this way since we were kids. I still remember him convincing me to climb onto the roof of our childhood home to test if umbrellas really work like parachutes (they do not).
He’s deploying his signature move now: batting those ridiculous lashes that he somehow got blessed with while I ended up with Dad’s stubby ones. “Just for a little bit?” he wheedles. “One drink? I promise to trip Casey if she dares show her face.”
I peek out from behind the pillow. “You don’t have to trip Casey.”
He grins, knowing he’s won.
“We’re only staying for one drink,” I tell him.
Aiden’s already shrugging off his robe, revealing a perfectly coordinated outfit. Of course he was dressed and ready this whole time.
“Whatever you say, sis. Whatever you say.”