16
I don’t do early mornings, and if I’m ever upright at seven, it’s by mistake or because life decided to screw me over for a change. Today I open my eyes before the alarm, no coffee, no complaints, nothing. Reason for the miracle—putting it on record: Nat slept with me.
I repeat it slow, like stage directions in my head: she-stayed-over.
No scrambling to scoop up panties, no vanishing down the hall with sneakers in hand, no tactical retreat.
She’s got me in a hug, breathing easy, little snores brushing my ear, and this weird calm settles in at an hour that’s usually criminal.
And me, being me, I’m already greenlighting a new season in my brain.
I’m making coffee, the moka pot doing its little noises, I fan the steam with my hand, when Vega walks in with her bun cinched tight like mine and, to top it off, the same Nirvana T-shirt we grabbed at the flea market. Not even planned. What a ridiculous genetic joke, seriously.
"Who are you and what have you done with my sister?" she goes, in that gotcha, that busted-you tone.
"Shut up, you pest," I tell her, and a dopey smile slips out.
"Coffee for the Russian mafia? You gonna lace it with cyanide or just a splash of oat milk?"
"Basic coffee, girl. No chemicals." I do the please-understand-me-I’m-weak voice.
And then, the star of my dirty thoughts shows up.
Nat. Bedhead, a white T-shirt that clings in all the right places, no socks, face like, I just woke up and come unarmed, sur-prise.
Inside, I don’t touch the brakes: in my head, Nat walks in, grabs my face, kisses me, tells me we should adopt an ugly shelter dog, we sign paperwork, I post a story, hearts pour in, a ballad plays, and Vega slow-claps.
In real life, she looks surprised to still be alive in my apartment.
She freezes. Looks at Vega. Then at me. Then back to her.
"What is this? Which one of you is the wicked twin?"
We’ve got our ridiculous little scene ready. Vega cracks up, I roll my eyes, the moka pot sputters.
"I’m Vega, for whatever you want and whatever you don’t," she says, giving her the full scan, tag and all. "If there’s cash involved, I can pretend to be Alaska for a bit. We can negotiate."
"Vega, can you not?" I grumble, and the truth is all I want is for Nat to feel so at home she opens my drawer, grabs a random sock, and puts it on right here, no shame, no asking.
Nat smiles soft and my dopamine spikes; I go stupid. I want to put a toothbrush in the pink Barbie cup for her, show her where I keep the good olive oil, have her fall asleep on the couch while I put on a documentary and tuck her feet under the plaid blanket.
I want to stop in the middle of the kitchen and yell SNORE HERE EVERY DAY, DO IT FOR SPAIN, but I hold it in. I’m not that far gone yet. Or I hide it better, which, same difference.
"Basic coffee, Nat. Nobody’s getting poisoned here, except my pride if you think it’s weak."
Nat nods, takes a sip, closes her eyes for half a second, and I inventory every decision that got me here, including that time I styled my hair with dollar-store mousse, and think maybe I should’ve studied to be a baker—less drama, more buns.
I don’t say it. I nod too, drink, burn my tongue a little, smile.
Nat’s phone blares, not discreet at all, full volume. She looks at the screen and her face shuts off. She goes rigid, shoulders up, eyebrows knotted.
"Sorry," she snaps, and bolts to the living room.
She answers. I catch loose bits of Russian that probably mean “supermarket,” but to me they sound like: Alaska, brace yourself.
My ear smells drama. I get fragments—da, nyet, names—and my brain translates something else: Alaska, tie your hair back, it’s about to blow.
The tone carries urgency, that color that’s scary in any language.
I sidle up at a wounded pace: enough to make it clear I’m inching closer, but not so much I eat a smackdown in Cyrillic.
"Nat...?" I whisper.
She looks at me, but she doesn’t see me. EMPTY in all caps, Soviet edition.
"I have to go." Funeral voice. Makes me want to die.
"What? Now?"
"Yeah. Now."
"Can you at least tell me if you accidentally switched to Terminator mode? Tell me—are you a robot, Nat? Are lightsabers going to shoot out of your ears if I crack a bad joke?"
"I’m sorry, babe."
The mug clanks in the sink; not even the faintest twitch of a smile. Not one cute little wrinkle. The villain. And she heads straight for the door.
"But what the hell happened?" Vega pops around the corner.
Nat stops for a nanosecond and hits me with that code-red stare. Do not enter. No access for Alaska the snoop.
"Nothing. Stuff."
"But like good-stuff nothing or 'I’m off to make a life on another planet'?"
"It’s nothing. I just have to handle something."
Pure lie. She’s medium-bad shading to catastrophic and won’t drop half a fact. She bails. Not even a sad little kiss. Leaves me planted in the kitchen with cold coffee and a vengeful itch to burn the winter comforter for sport.
I get the dramatic urge to sprint down the hall yelling her name until the lady in 5A complains, but I stop on the landing. A girl has limits, and the neighbors already hate me for the Saturday "karaoke."
The morning drains away on the couch: ratty T-shirt, claw clip in my hair, one sock gone rogue.
The TV’s stuck on live trash—some panel I’m not listening to, a crappy rerun of a celebrity game show.
I script conversations in my head that Nat will never say: "I’m actually a double agent; we ride off at dawn on a motorcycle.
I signed up for Zumba and that’s why I bolted.
My parents landed without warning and they’re gifted at ruining dates. "
My phone has been in my hand longer than the WHO would approve of for self-esteem. I refresh WhatsApp, Telegram, Instagram, even the weather app, in case an emotional cyclone warning pops up out of nowhere.
I seriously consider sending a melodramatic text: "It’s fine, I’ve only died a little, thanks for asking, darling." Open chat, type, delete, repeat. I self-censor by shoving the phone under a cushion and sitting on it.
Then the doorbell rings and I already picture Vega yelling "Uber Eats!" hand outstretched, primed to snatch the bag even if it’s the neighbor’s.
But nope—I open up, and it’s not a delivery guy, it’s Nat.
Nat in basic mode: jeans, no-slogan T-shirt, leather jacket unzipped, hair a mess, eyes gone.
She looks wiped, shoulders slumped, skin pale.
And instead of a speech, all I want is to offer her hot chocolate, sit her on the couch, and tuck her under my teddy-bear blanket from Primark, because she looks shaky and my inner nurse clocks in.
She breathes, takes a long beat, and says, "We need to talk."
A shiver cuts through me. I only use that phrase to ask Vega to leave the bathroom breathable after her intestinal dramas, so my brain redlines. Either she’s dumping me or she’s pitching an illegal plan with masks and a GoPro—rob a bank and end up on the local news.
I stay in the hallway, still, waiting for her to say she’s kidding, but no. Suspense arrives, neutral face, and the feeling that not even a bargain channel would buy this episode. I’m braced for the worst. Blanket within reach, chocolate too.
"Is Vega home?" she asks.
I nod. That’s all I’ve got. My sarcasm, which usually works even in the bakery line, won’t turn over today. It clogs my throat and scratches.
"What?"
"Your sister needs to hear this too. If she’s here, bring her."
Panic lights me up. If she’s calling in reinforcements, we’re screwed. I don’t know what’s happening; I only know it’s bad. I feel it in my gut and in my nipples that go hard for no reason.
"Vega!" I bellow, full house alarm. "Get here, now—hurry!"
Nat stands in the middle of the living room. She doesn’t sit, doesn’t touch the couch, doesn’t move the cushion. On her feet, taut, face still. I don’t touch her, in case she cries and I won’t know where to put her.
Vega shuffles down the hall: rumpled pajamas, botched bun, and the silent-hate face of someone yanked from sleep.
"What is it now? You dying? Did your mobster execute the lady in 5A over the noise, or what?" she fires off without blinking.
One look at Nat is enough to get it: not today. The joke dies. Vega wrinkles her nose and shuts her mouth.
"The boss says," I explain, not sure where to look, arms crossed, neck hunched, "there’s a meeting."
The three of us drop onto the couch. Well, they sit—one knee over the other, all elegant. I, meanwhile, crash-land with flair, and the second my ass hits the cushion I let out an involuntary groan.
"Sorry, okay? I know this isn’t the moment to air my gluteal woes, with drama floating and all of us angling for tears."
I can fake the drama, but a sore butt? Not even black magic helps.
"Do you want a pillow?" Vega cuts in, with the kind of tone that says, "Girl, shut up and focus—this is serious."
I try to pull myself together with some dignity, breathing like I’m about to push out a baby instead of facing the drama of the century, and I turn to look at Nat.
My Nat—the one who, half an hour ago, was my pin-me-to-the-wall goddess and now is…
a washed-out avatar with the look of someone about to tell me I’m getting written off the show right after I finally learned my lines.
"What I’m about to tell you is important. Listen all the way through. If after that you want to tell me to take a long walk off a short pier, go ahead, I promise I won’t be offended."
Vega folds her arms. I clutch the pillow. I don’t say a word. I just nod, with the dazed look of a little manger figurine.
Half of me thinks, "Alaska, get out of here and play amnesiac—don’t ask, don’t engage, ignore it all.
" But the other half, the one already getting hooked on this blonde and, on top of that, addicted to gossip, is sitting front row, cracking open a fresh fantasy: Drama? Yes, girl, yes—make it a double and add fireworks. If my life’s going to shit, let it come with cold opens, recaps, and a big DRAMA ALERT.
If they’re about to blow up my whole existence, the least they can do is explain the plot first.