Anonymous(61)

I don’t know how long it takes with me fumbling around, trying to get my key in the lock, before it opens. Quinn stands there, with his arm holding the door. The muscles in his arm strain, likely from the grip he has on the edge of the wood. The bright light from our living room lamp highlights his scowl almost perfectly, which is different for him because usually he’s expressionless, always stoic. It’s the troubled soul of a musician, only he’s not troubled. I swear if he were, I don’t think I’d be able to live with him.

“Thanks.” I step in, brushing against him.

“We need to talk, Elle.”

“Did someone die?” This is my automatic response to a statement like this. Quinn looks at me, his eyes cold and steady. I shrug. I know it’s a bad joke, but whatever. I don’t know why he’d expect anything different from me.

The door slams shut. The sound reverberates through the room, causing me to jump. “All right, can we at least turn the light off?” I shield my eyes when I look at him, exaggerating the fact that the light is too bright. His expression seems to worsen as he glares at me.

“Sit down.” Quinn’s command is forceful, demanding. He points to one of the two chairs we own. He’s set them up across from one another in the middle of our living room, almost like an interrogation or better yet an intervention.

“What’s going on?” I sit with a huff, slouching in the chair with my legs kicked out in front of me. My brother sits down and grips the armrests, keeping his back straight and his eyes set on mine. Quinn is hard to read, always has been. I’m not joking when I say he’s a tortured or troubled musician, even though he grew up in the lap of luxury. The stigma still applies to him. He’s an old soul, according to our grandma, and carries some imaginary burden that only Quinn knows how to combat. “Quinn?”

“The partying has to stop, Elle.”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t stutter. Since… for the past year, you’ve been out of control. Most nights, you don’t even make it home. At first, I didn’t think it was anything. Nothing out of the ordinary, since you’re in college and this is what kids our age do, but recently, your habits are all over social media and Mom and Dad are throwing around words like court ordered rehab.”

My mouth suddenly dries, my stomach rolls and my temper is on the verge of exploding. No one, not Quinn, my parents or even my sister can understand what I’ve been going through. What Quinn couldn’t bring himself to say is that since my twin sister almost died, since she was smashed up in a car, much like our father, and had to fight for her life, I haven’t been right. Nothing in my life seems right anymore, and partying is the only way I know how to cope. The drinking allows me to stay numb, it keeps my mind in a fog so I don’t have to deal with the endless questions about how I’m doing, how Peyton is coming along or when am I going to settle down like her. The constant comparison, whether its about our physical health or mental well-being is taking its toll. People seem to forget that we’re twins, but we’re not the same person. “You have no right.”

“I have every right. I’m tired of watching you self-destruct. I was there too, Elle. I almost lost my sister as well, but you don’t see me drowning myself night after night, with people who don’t care about me, who won’t protect me if something were to go wrong.”

“No, you’re perfect, right? You don’t let anything affect you. You don’t drink, do drugs or attempt to live life! You sit in your room, and write your songs, day after day and play them night after night at whatever bar or coffee shop will let you, until you get your big break. You sing to people who don’t care about you, who won’t rescue you if something were to go wrong. Seems we’re not much different in the way we’re coping.”

Quinn shakes his head. “I’m not coping, Elle. I’ve moved on. I’ve come to terms with the fact Peyton almost died. It took me months, but you, it’s… this has to stop. No one’s saying you can’t go out and have fun, but the night after night drunken escapades have to come to an end. We are all in agreement, things have to change.”

“Who’s we?”

“Mom and Dad. Peyton and I. Ben.”

“Ben?” My eyes divert to Quinn’s and he nods. I shake my head, wondering when my best friend decided to betray me. He’s supposed to be my ride or die, but lately, he’s been distant, standoffish. Maybe this is why. Could it be he’s had enough of my crap and is trying to put some space between us? No, I don’t believe it. If anything, he’s got his nose to the books and is preparing for our upcoming finals.

“He’s worried about you. We all are.”

“None of you knows anything about me.” My hands push into my hair as I grunt. I want to scream, to push Quinn against the wall and yell until he finally understands what it’s like to be me, if only for five minutes. Be Elle Powell-James, sister of Peyton who is engaged to Noah Westbury, and living their happy little life on social media for everyone to see. I shouldn’t think this way when it comes to my sister because she’s my lifeline, my best friend. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her, and if she knew how I felt, she’d crumble. The last thing she would ever want to do is hurt me.

Quinn sighs and rubs his hands down the front of his legs. He’s dressed like our dad, khaki shorts with combat boots with some random band shirt, likely a group from the seventies when ‘music was real’ and made with instruments and not computers.