“Hmm? Sorry, I was trying to remember a couple of drink orders.” It’s a lie, but I’ve been the object of way too many concerned looks lately, so my instinct is to cover the truth.
“Oh, sorry. But did you see them? Best-looking men I’ve ever seen in here.”
“Good luck,” I say, not looking at her as I transfer glasses of beer onto my tray. “I hope they’re big tippers.”
“I hope they have big dicks and they’re in town for at least a week,” Becca says with a raucous laugh.
I head off in the other direction without comment. The Stone brothers must have women throwing themselves at them everywhere they go. They were popular back in high school, and they’re even better looking now. Ridiculously good looking, based on the quick glimpses I’ve stolen, and verified by Becca’s rave reviews.
I busy myself with new customers, but I have a hard time focusing. When I risk another glance at the corner table, I find Barrett, Bronson, Lennox, and Lincoln all watching me. That poisonous mixture of anger, dread, and panic floods me once again. I quickly look away, and immediately feel like a coward.
They should be the ones afraid to show their faces, not me.
I lift my head, square my shoulders, and meet their gazes. Then I head straight for them.
3
No goodbye
When I reach their table, I don’t say anything. I just stare.
There is so much that’s familiar. Their eyes are the same. The younger twins’ hair is much the same, though it looks thicker than it used to be. There’s also something strong and intangible that I recognize — their presence, their energy?
But there is so much that’s different. Fuller features; harder angles; thicker muscles; masculine dark stubble. Despite the changes, up close, I know without question which twin is which.
“Caroline,” Lennox says, his voice full of tenderness and sympathy.
“It’s Caz now,” I say. I’m leaning hard on one hip and cradling the empty bar tray in front of me like a shield.
“We’re sorry about your dad,” Bronson says.
“And sorry for arriving late to the funeral,” Barrett adds.
“That’s what you’re sorry for?”
“We were out of the country when we got the news,” he continues, ignoring my remark. “We flew back as soon as we could.”
I shrug, refusing to look away from them, no matter how much my nervous system is urging me to choose flight over fight.
“Mom was worried when you didn’t come to the house after the service,” Bronson says.
Shit! Also not my intention. “I should’ve texted her,” I mumble. “How’s she doing?”
Barrett shakes his head. “Not great.”
“Pretty much a mess,” Bronson says, “but we’ll get her through it.”
I shift my weight to my other hip. “I’m surprised she even recognized you.” When four sets of brows furrow in a similar look of confusion, I continue. “Not visiting your mom once in ten years — not even for holidays — is really shitty.”
The men continue to frown at me. “We usually see her twice a year,” Lennox says. “When she stays at Aunt Michelle’s, we meet her there.”
If he’d kicked me in the stomach, it might have hurt less.
“So it’s just me that you haven’t bothered to see — or even contact — in all these years?”
I spin around and dart across the room, grateful that I have experience navigating the floor of Rusty’s when it’s crowded. I didn’t know it would be possible to feel even more abandoned than I did ten years ago. The wound never fully healed, but now it’s been ripped open and flooded with acid.
Throughout the years that have passed, I’ve kept track of the boys — now men — online, usually looking them up when I’ve had too much to drink. I know they went into the military after they left home, and after honorable discharges, they started a business, Stone Security. Their company is located in New York City — over ten hours away — and I’ve told myself they didn’t visit because of the distance.
But it turns out they’ve been making regular trips to their aunt’s house, which is only a two-hour drive from Four Points Island, and they couldn’t be bothered to come the extra distance to see me. Or to ever reach out to me, in all these years, to ask how I was doing.
I really did mean nothing to them.
I push hard against the restroom door, but before it can bang shut behind me, Becca follows me in.
“Christine told me who the men are,” she says in a rush. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize them from the funeral. I guess it must be the lighting in here. Tonight, I didn’t even realize they were twins. Anyway, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have said all that stuff if I had known they were your brothers.”
Through gritted teeth, I say, “They’re not my brothers.”