Chapter 3
Three
The fuzzy edges of my mind register the two-syllable pull of my name. It creeps closer, more persistent, but it’s only when hands land on me that I’m dragged from sleep.
“Honey.”
I blink rapidly, turning my… mother into a distorted smear of colour.
It takes longer than it should for the haze to lift, but when it does, awareness slams back in with the unwelcome clarity of exactly where I am.
Grove Bay.
On my connecting balcony.
That’s not all that returns. With my mother’s face front and centre, I can’t block out the confession she revealed in secret last night. It skims along my skin like a taunt I’ll never unhear. I try for a smile to ease the worry in her expertly made-up face, but it slips before it sticks.
“Hi, Mom.” I shift, my spine popping after who-knows-how-long twisted in this rattan chair. “What time is it?”
“Just past one,” comes the distracted reply. Maybe she’d be more present if she wasn’t busy studying every square inch of my face. A flicker of pain shadows emerald green before she turns away, white-knuckling the railing.
“Ah.” I go for apathy. Better that than letting the wound breathe. “Must’ve drifted off after sunrise. Supposed to be beautiful around here.”
And it is. When the sun rose, blush-pinks slipped into golden calm, painting the bay in soft radiance.
Idyllic, some blog post claimed.
Now that I’ve seen it, I agree. It is the kind of beauty that could soothe the jagged ends of a soul.
Only, lately, I’m not sure mine is whole, so I just watched from a distance, like a painting behind glass.
It worked for one thing, though. Dulling the headache. Now it’s back with a vengeance, fifty fists pounding the inside of my skull.
I massage my temples as I wait for a reply, but when all I get is birdsong overhead, my hand falls to my lap.
The tremor in her shoulders sinks into my chest like lead.
I have a thought, then. One that confirms the worst thing about me. I’m a terrible daughter.
Because instead of crossing the space to comfort her, I’m calculating escape routes. How far I’d have to walk before the memory-heavy air stopped crushing from all sides.
“Mom.” I dig my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay present. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The sniffle says otherwise.
I make myself move—step forward, reach out, touch her.
“Mom.” My hands hover hesitantly on her shoulders. “Please. Look at me.”
She shakes her head, sending darker honey-blonde strands across my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to come in here and do this to you.”
One circle. Stop. Another. My fingers find the rhythm automatically, tracing steady shapes across her back.
“You don’t have to apologise. You’re allowed to cry.”
But my body whispers what my mouth doesn’t: just not here. Not on me.
Another tremor wracks her. When she turns, red-rimmed eyes pierce straight through. That’s not what gets me though. It’s her hands reaching for mine with the same urgent pull I felt last night.
Then, that touch felt like something constant to follow in the dark. Now? I know this kind of hold. I want to shrink from it, to fold in on myself. Because this isn’t comfort.
This is guilt.
“What is it?” I ask, searching her face in the same manner she did mine.
She flicks away a tear. “You’re not doing well, sweetie. We know you came in late last night. You slept out here. You don’t talk to us about how you’re feeling or how you’re doing. You don’t talk about…”
Her.
The hypocrisy of her omission isn’t lost on me.
I try not to let the regret show, but it’s a live wire inside me, burning.
I should’ve left.
Now I’m here, wishing the sandstone tiles would swallow me whole. Hoping my pounding head and dry mouth would conspire and knock me out cold. But no. Luck’s not mine to have.
So she keeps on going.
“I hate seeing you like this. I know you’re hurting, but it’s been weeks, and you won’t let anyone in. You won’t even name it. You’ll never move forward if you don’t acknowledge it.”
It.
Her mouth tightens around the word. Her eyes flicker, waiting.
“You need to talk to someone, honey.”
A summer of healing. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Your father and I… we’ve set up sessions for you with a therapist. Dr. Gazelle.” The name is offered like a balm I’m meant to recognise. “She specialises in”—a pause, a breath, a swallow—“twinless twins. She’s one of the best. Everyone says so.”
There’s more, but white noise drowns it out.
Twinless twin.
Twinless twin.
Twinless twin.
It loops like broken code, some kind of taunt.
It’s wrong. God, it’s wrong. How is there a world where those words exist? They feel stitched together by something cruel, unnatural, like fate went off-script. How do we enter the world together, only for one to leave first?
Nausea rolls through me like a tide, and it’s only made worse by the afternoon sun. The emptiness of my stomach is probably the only reason I haven’t keeled over; if there were anything in there, I’d already be bent over the railing.
“—be mad at us.” A squeeze on my hand returns all sound. “We’re only trying to help.”
“Why would I need help?” My voice scrapes out dry. “I’m fine, Mom. Trust me.”
Fake it till you make it, right?
She cups my cheek, and this time, I miss the echo of last night completely. All my energy is going into holding the mask in place.
“Sweetheart, you don’t look fine. I’ve never seen you like this.”
Like what? Unwashed? Pale? A bit too blank around the eyes?
If that’s all it takes to set off alarm bells, fine. I step back, sparks of purpose budding. Give me an hour, and I’ll scrub the signs of grief right off.
“It’s nothing. Really. I don’t need to see anyone for anything.” I don’t give her a chance to verbalise the protest I see forming. “I’m gonna shower. I’ll see you.”
The moment the en-suite door clicks shut, I loose the shakiest breath.
Just one. Any more, and I’ll slide too far down a hole I won’t climb out of.
Even if I already know—this conversation isn’t over.
Fresh-faced and forty-minutes later, I hit the beach in an outfit that would earn my mother’s seal of approval. The blue bikini set is simple, but the matching skirt elevates it into chic.
I adjust my tote on my shoulder. Nudge my shades higher.
On the outside, it works. On the inside?
Not so much. The slick-back bun presses against my skull and syncs with the drumbeat behind my eyes.
My statement Bottega earrings feel like sensory overload, and the oil glinting on my skin only makes me feel sticky under the harsh sun.
Thank God I skipped makeup. The last thing I need is a reflection to betray me, cracks showing up where my mother swore they’d show.
The beach is alive with movement. Bodies laid out to bronze, laughter kicking up sand, footsteps pounding the tide line. Under it all, I catch the ocean’s song. Steady. Unhurried. As if it doesn’t care how long I take to listen.
I haven’t dared to look at it yet. I’m afraid to find the victory has washed away, that whatever I claimed last night was never mine without the high.
Besides, I’ve got something to do—and I’ve just spotted someone who might be able to help.
“Hi.” I return the stranger’s smile with one of my own. “Weird ask, but I left my phone on the beach last night. Any chance I could use yours to call it? I’m hoping someone found it.”
It’s ridiculous how long it took me to even remember I had a phone. The thought didn’t land until the sky was bleeding with sunrise. Coke come-down will do that to you, I guess. Leave you stranded somewhere between dread and nothing, memory sputtering in and out like a faulty light.
By the time I dragged myself down to the beach, it was gone. No phone. Only salt, breeze, and silence.
My right hand feels strangely empty without it. It’s not that I’m addicted to the device, I’m not, but these days the cord of my earphones tethers me to it, and by extension to the one thing that never fails me.
Music. It’s always been a safe-space, but now it’s something more along the lines of a lifeline.
Noise against silence. A salve for the hollow parts of me.
The woman offers her phone without question. I punch my number in then listen as the dial tone hums once… twice… voicemail. I try again.
Come on. Come on. Come on—
“Hello?”
On the very last ring, it connects.
“Hi!” The voice on the other end definitely belongs to a female. “I’m Brielle. I left my phone on the beach… I’m guessing you found it?”
“Aspen. My friend was the one who found it. Grove Beach, right?”
“Yeah. I’m actually here right now. Any chance you’re close by?”
She is. Same beach, just a few hundred feet away, apparently.
Finding her is a mission, though. Her directions are solid but her outfit description is basically beach-camouflage.
“Brielle.”
I spin. Jean shorts. Tank top. Like she said. “Aspen.”
I don’t even need confirmation; the light-blue phone case peeking through her fingers is enough. “Yeah. Hey.” She closes in, holding it out. “Glad I could get this back to you. Looks like you’ve got a few messages.”
Alex.
Three messages blink up at me, and that’s three more than I’d like. I know it’s not ill-intentioned on her part, the complete opposite actually, but pity tastes bitter even through glass.
“Is everything okay?”
For a moment, I forget where I am.
I wipe my face, force a smile.
“Yeah. Thanks. Really. And please tell your friend I’m grateful.”
She nods, lingering like there’s more she wants to say. But the silence stretches, and soon we’re trading goodbyes, and I’m eyeing which patch of sand I can collapse on.
Before I get far, my name follows me back.
I turn. “Yeah?”
“Why not thank him in person?” She shifts her weight, a chestnut curl brushing her shoulder. “We’re having people at our beach-house tonight. I can text you the details, if you want. No pressure.”
Yes. Instantly yes. The prospect of getting liquored up is too good to pass. “Sure.” I play it cool. “I’d love that.”
Aspen beams, and when I smile back, it doesn’t feel entirely fake for once.
Vodka shots, here I come.