Chapter 3 #2
I turn around, squinting against the wind.
A figure bundled like a purple marshmallow waves at me from the car line, and even with the scarf wrapped to her eyes and hat pulled low I know it’s Jemma.
We shared a womb for nine months and a room for eighteen years.
The girl is more familiar than the back of my hand.
I break into a jog, pulling my rolling suitcase behind me. Jemma throws her arms around me, squeezing tight. She smells like vanilla coffee and the lavender fabric softener Mom’s used since we were kids. God, it’s good to be home, even if only for a week.
“How was your flight?” She grabs my suitcase, hefting it into the trunk.
“Good.” I hustle to get into the warmth of the car, my fingers already numb. Even though I grew up in Minnesota, and New Hampshire isn’t exactly a warm climate, coming back here in the winter is always a bit of a shock.
Jemma gets in next to me, where the heat is blasting, and unwinds her scarf and takes off her hat. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, her black hair staticky from her hat, pieces floating around her face.
“Nice hair do,” I tease.
She takes a look in the mirror and laughs. “Yeah, I thought I would try something new for your visit. People need to tell us apart somehow.”
I laugh at the old joke. People can tell us apart just fine, since we’re not identical. But it became a funny thing Jude—our dad—would say when we were kids. “They’re twins,” he’d tell people with a straight face. “Bet you can’t tell them apart!”
“How are you?” Jemma merges into traffic, hands steady despite the icy roads.
“I’m...” Immediately, Oliver enters my thoughts—the last thing I want to think about while being home. “Good.”
“Have you been getting dizzy lately?” Her next glance is full of concern.
“Only when I’m not careful.” My chest tightens a little bit, and I remind myself to take a deep breath.
Six months ago, the chronic fatigue I’d battled for years decided it needed a friend: POTS.
Now I deal with two conditions. The chronic fatigue is the bone-deep exhaustion, the brain fog that makes me forget words.
POTS is the new addition where standing up too fast makes the world spin and my heart race like I’ve run a marathon.
It’s been half a year of learning to manage both—compression socks, extra salt, never standing quickly.
Jemma frowns, and I can nearly see her wheels spinning, the questions piling up. Doesn’t it help to eat more salt? What about elevating the head of your bed? Are you staying away from alcohol?
She’s asked me them all before, running through the mental checklist she no doubt compiled with Google. It’s sweet, but right now I don’t feel like being managed.
“How’s work?” I quickly ask, eager to change the subject.
Luckily, it only takes a little push to get Jemma talking.
We spend the rest of the drive with her filling me in on recent staff changes and the scandal where Dr. Whitman—sixty and married—was discovered dating a receptionist fresh out of college.
“His wife came in during lunch. With a baseball bat! Smashed his Mercedes windshield.” She’s been working as a dental hygienist at the same job since finishing school—in our hometown—and while I used to not understand how she could stay, it’s starting to make more sense to me.
Pine Island didn’t just call to me because there was an empty boathouse begging to be renovated into a physical therapy clinic.
The whole area is peaceful in a way that can’t be described.
Everyone knows everyone, and people look out for each other.
It’s the exact opposite of New York City.
It’s the exact opposite of what I lived when I was with—
I shake off another thought about Oliver as we pull up to the house.
Green and red lights cover every surface—bushes, roof, even the mailbox. Inflatable animals in scarves dot the yard. Jude and Henry have clearly gotten into a decorating competition with the neighbors.
They’re always like that. Go big or go home. It’s confirmation that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be: back with my family.
Jemma and I hustle inside, my sister insisting on carrying my suitcase. We’ve barely taken off our boots when our parental units descend.
“Look at you!” Mom takes me by the shoulders. “Is your hair shorter? You look tired.”
“Hey, kid.” Henry hugs me tight, his beard tickling my cheek.
Jude approaches with a tray of fresh-baked cookies. “Welcome home, sweet pea. I made your favorite.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I kiss him on the cheek before accepting a chocolate chip cookie.
It’s kind of like a cliché holiday movie—except not, because my mom and dad aren’t a couple and never were.
Jude’s been “gay since day one,” as he likes to put it, and he and Mom have been best friends for forty years.
When they both decided they wanted kids without waiting for Mr. Right, they used science to make it happen.
So here Jemma and I are, the result of that.
It’s exhausting to explain the whole thing to people, although not as exhausting as explaining our current living situation: Jude and Henry live in the main house where Mom and Jude raised us, while Mom lives in the renovated bungalow out back.
The part that seems to blow people’s minds is that everyone is happy. My mom and dad get along better than most married couples, and since Henry’s been in our lives since we were preteens, we see him as a parent too.
“Are you eating enough?” Henry frowns. “Jude, give her another cookie.”
“I’m okay.” I laugh, taking a second cookie anyway.
They won’t hear it, though, and I kind of like it. After months of being a responsible adult, it’s good to be coddled.
“Your timing is perfect. Dinner is almost ready.” Mom leads us through the living room with its crooked Christmas tree drowning in ornaments, into the dining room with its display cases full of tiny ceramic dogs—Henry’s collection, for some reason—and view of the snowy backyard, a path shoveled to the bungalow at the edge of the trees.
Chatter fills the room as we carry dishes to the table. The scent of garlicky mashed potatoes and pot roast should make me hungry. I settle into the chair with the wobbly leg that Jude keeps promising to fix, but my appetite has vanished.
Where is Oliver? Is he spending Christmas with his family, or is he at Niall’s?
It’s stupid. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. When he walked into the pizzeria, my stomach sank. Yet at the same time... I was excited to see him.
Which is so fucked up.
“Devin?” Jude peers at me from the table’s end. “What’s on your mind? You’re staring off into space.”
Everyone quiets, and I feel the weight of four pairs of eyes on me.
I clear my throat. “Uh, I saw Oliver yesterday.”
Jemma’s fork clatters onto her plate. “What?”
“It was so weird. He just moved to Portsmouth. He’s going to be coaching at a high school. I didn’t expect to see him ever again.”
Henry snorts, stabbing his pot roast. “Well, I hope you punched him in the face.”
Jude frowns, adjusting his glasses. “Honey. Violence?” But there’s something analytical in his voice. “Coaching high school hockey. That’s quite a fall from the NHL. The psychology of that transition must be... difficult.”
“He deserves it,” Jemma snarls. “If she didn’t punch him, I’ll drive there myself and do it.”
Henry leans forward, protective. “After what he put you through? Making you doubt yourself when you were sick? Some people need to learn consequences.”
Mom takes a slow sip of wine, lips thin. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but intense. “How did you feel, seeing him?”
Her question cuts through the others’ reactions. She’s asking about me, not him.
“His career ended,” I say quietly. “Shattered wrist. He looked... lost.”
“Good,” Henry says firmly, then softens. “Though I suppose... losing everything you’ve worked for...”
Jude nods slowly. “The identity crisis alone would be devastating.”
“Don’t make him sound sympathetic,” Jemma snaps. “He told Devin her chronic fatigue was in her head. He left her alone in a parking garage when she could barely stand.”
A year ago, I would have joined in with the bashing.
I had plenty of my own angry retorts. Now, though, I just feel sorry for Oliver.
When I saw him at the bar, so thin and nervous looking, there was no trace of the overconfident asshole who made me feel so small.
It seemed he couldn’t even handle some people asking for his autograph, since he ran out the back door the moment a line formed.
What happened to him?
“We’re not defending him,” Mom says gently. “But Devin needs to process this however she needs to.”
And I do have complicated feelings about it. Part of me thinks he got what he deserved. Another part remembers the boy who was so terrified of failure. And a tiny part remembers the good times.
“Hey.” Jemma nudges my foot under the table. “Forget about him.”
I work up a smile. “I will,” I promise, already knowing that it won’t be that easy.