Chapter 8

• Julia
• I swallow him. All of it. And he moans, and groans, and fists my hair so he can hold me in place until he’s finished. And then he lifts me off him, pushes me back onto the bed, and falls sideways on top of me.
• “Shit,” he says, out of breath and heart beating fast against mine. “Shit,” he says again.
• “Not what you expected?” I ask, curving my body into his as I close my eyes. His arm sneaks under my body and he holds me in a tight embrace.
• “It was everything I expected,” he mumbles.
• Oh. Not what I was going for, but OK. But instead of saying that I say, “I just wanna sleep now.”
• He huffs out a breath that might be a smile mixed with a laugh. “Sure thing. No objections here.”
• I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck as he reaches over, feeling for a blanket, and covers us up. The sudden warmth and closeness feels like protection and safety all at once and even though this day was one of the worst in my life, it ends better than it started.
• “Good night, Julia,” he murmurs, already drifting off.
• “Night,” I say back, suddenly wide awake. I can still feel the buzz from the whiskey but it’s not enough to erase what just happened.
• I just had sex with Trent Turner.
• No. That’s not what happened.
• I just had sex with my brother’s best friend.
• Right after his funeral.
• What kind of horrible sister am I? Why did I do this?
• But of course, I know why.
• I wanted to. And Eric wasn’t here to play interloper and stop us. For the first time in my life I was alone and Trent was all mine.
• I sigh and this makes Trent shift position. A sudden urge to leave overtakes me. Just get my shit and walk out. But he’s not sleeping that deep yet. If I move, I’ll wake him up. Plus, I’m too drunk to drive all the way back to the city.
• So I lie there. Forbidding myself from enjoying his loose embrace. Forbidding myself from replaying our first time over and over in my head.
• Doesn’t work.
• I do enjoy him and I do replay it.
• Especially the kisses. And the way he responded to me. And the way he nibbled my earlobe as I came. And the way he forced my head to stay in position as he came down my throat.
• Then I get one of those irrational fears. Can Eric see us? Is his spirit still hanging around? Did he just witness our ultimate betrayal?
• I don’t believe in ghosts, or God, or spirit realms, so I tell myself that’s all nonsense.
• Still, I can’t get the image of Eric out of my mind. I picture him pacing the room at the foot of the bed. Screaming at me. Screaming at Trent. Taking a swing at him and unable to connect.
• It’s bad enough he’s dead, but now we just went and made things worse.
• I want to leave. I need to leave.
• But I remain still.
• I tell myself that I just need him to sleep deeper, then I’ll get up and walk out.
• But time passes. Hours pass and I’m still here.
• Trent has shifted position so many times he’s now lying on his stomach, arms gripping the pillow under his face.
• Light begins to seep in from the window and I can see his bedroom a little. It’s small, just a bed and one nightstand off to the side. The curtains are sheer and blue. So is the comforter covering me.
• But he’s all the way on the other side of the bed now. There’s no excuse for me to still be here. So I carefully—quietly—get up and walk into the living room. Put on all my clothes, grab my shoes, and leave the way I came in. Through the back, down the alley, and out onto the street.
• My parents live about a mile and a half away and I walk the whole thing barefoot. It’s early, barely six AM, and it’s Saturday. Our sleepy little town isn’t quite ready to wake up yet, so thankfully only a few cars pass as I walk.
• When I get there I slip in the back door, find my purse, and then walk straight out to my car.
• I know I should stay. Talk to my parents, at least. But I can’t. I can’t be here in this town without Eric. And after what Trent and I did, I don’t think I could even look my parents in the eyes.
• So I walk out to the guest parking area, get in my car, and drive two hours back to the city.
• I’m just walking into my apartment when my phone buzzes an incoming text.
• Trent: Where’d you go?
• I don’t answer.
• Just turn the phone off, take a shower, and climb into my bed.
• When I wake up it’s already late afternoon. And when the memory of what I did the night before comes rushing back, I dread looking at my phone.
• But what I find waiting for me is both surprising and expected.
• Three messages from my parents.
• None, other than that first one, from Trent.
• Hmmm. I guess his regrets are as real as mine.
• I make a cup of coffee real fast, then settle onto my couch and call my parents.
• “There you are,” my mother says, not even bothering with hello. “We’re been calling you all day. Where are you?”
• “Home,” I say.
• “Oh,” my mother says. “We were expecting you at the reception last night.”
• “Right,” I say, closing my eyes. Because I feel like I could sleep for another three days. “Trent and I went to his place afterward. We stayed at the grave for a while, just talking. And then we went back to the garage and… got drunk, to be honest.”
• “Well, I’m just glad you’re OK. We were worried about you.”
• “No, I’m OK,” I say. Feeling anything but OK.
• “Your father is still in bed,” she says.
• “Shit,” I say. “I can come back. I’m supposed to work Sunday brunch tomorrow, but—”
• “No,” she says, cutting me off. “He’ll be OK. It’s just going to take time. People deal with grief in many ways. I’m up at the crack of dawn painting. That’s what keeps me sane. But your father… well, he’s dreading what comes next.”
• “What does come next?” I ask. Death is so foreign to me, I really have no clue what happens after a funeral.
• “We have to clean out Eric's house and then figure out what to do with it after the reading of the will.”
• “Right,” I say, rubbing my temple. “The will. When is that again?”
• “Friday afternoon. Here at Mr. Turner’s office.”
• “Shit,” I say. “I didn’t realize Mr. Turner was handling this stuff.”
• “He is,” my mom says. “Eric and Trent both made wills a few years ago when the business took off.”
• “Right,” I say, still rubbing my temple. But the headache isn’t responding to my massages. Hangover, I decide. “Of course they’d just use Trent’s dad.”
• “So you’re coming for that?” my mother asks.
• I want to say no. Very badly. But I skipped out on the reception and hearing that my dad isn’t doing well—I decide I can’t.
• “For sure,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
• “Good.” My mother sighs with relief. “How is Trent?” she asks. “He was a mess the night before the funeral. Came over to our house and stayed the night on the couch.”
• “He did?”
• “He was so upset. Did you two have a good talk?”
• “Talk?” Jesus. I sound like an idiot today. “Yeah,” I lie. “We did. It was a good… talk.”
• “Good,” she says. Also on autopilot. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a stinted, bumbling conversation with my mother before. “You know, most workplaces have bereavement time. You should use it, Julia. This is a huge change in your life. Losing a twin—”
• “I know,” I say, too sharply. “And I can’t take time off.” This is a lie. “We’re down a chef at the restaurant and I have to fill in.” Another lie. “Plus, it keeps my mind busy.” Finally, some truth.
• “OK, well.” She sighs. “Rest up. You sound tired.”
• “I will, Mom. I love you.”
• She returns the sentiment and we hang up. I sit on my couch and just… do nothing. Forgetting about my coffee until it’s cold and I have to get up and make another cup.
• But now I’m lying to myself. Because I am thinking about something.
• Not my dead twin, but Trent.
• His off-limits best friend who I had a one-night stand with last night.