One of Those Faces (17)

Maybe the rum was making us both braver, because he ventured a question further. “Why don’t you talk with him anymore?”

He thought the wrong one died. Issi was the future of our family, and everyone saw it. She was the embodiment of Mom and my father’s dreams born long before we existed. She was what kept hope alive for my father after Mom was gone. I shook my head. “You’re really pushing it.” I finished the last of my drink.

He laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “You can’t blame me for trying.” His questions along with the alcohol were dredging up exactly what I’d left the apartment to avoid.

I recalled the panic when I’d walked into my room a couple of weeks after the accident to find all my clothes were gone. My father had explained back then that he’d made a mistake but that I would have to wear Issi’s clothes for the time being. Deep down, I knew there had not been a misunderstanding. Issi’s closet had been full of bright dresses and skirts, and mine was all shirts and shorts and jeans. Mom had stopped dressing us alike almost immediately after our third birthdays when our personal fashion choices diverged. I had to wear only my dead twin’s clothes for the next couple of years until I grew out of them. That was about the time I stopped looking in mirrors. My reflection was no longer my own.

Even though my stomach was still swollen from dinner, I took another drink of my rum and Coke. My eyes hazily trained on Iann’s flushed cheeks. He was well on his way to drinking too much as well. His eyes were getting duller. I was relieved. Nothing was more embarrassing than being the only drunk one.

More words suddenly clawed their way out. “A couple of nights ago, a girl was murdered right over there.” I lazily nodded past my bed to the door.

“In your apartment?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Across the street. In the alley.” My throat was tight. She looked exactly like me. “I think I heard it happen.” I dropped my head down toward the table. I hadn’t actually acknowledged that out loud to anyone else. It felt worse to say it.

“What?” Iann asked, his hand warm as it covered mine.

I looked over at him and tried to focus on his face. “Never mind.”

I could read Iann’s thoughts in that moment. He was thinking I was a mess.

He’s right, you are.

I shakily got to my feet, clutching the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Iann stood a little easier. “Are you okay—do you need help?” He held out his hand to me.

I shook my head and stumbled to the bathroom. I threw the door shut behind me and knelt over the toilet, immediately purging. It wasn’t the alcohol. It was the truth making me sick.

My heart raced, the beat thudding in my ears as I grabbed the counter and got to my feet. I immediately regretted inviting Iann up. I regretted telling him anything about myself, especially after I had tried to forget.

I quietly gargled with mouthwash and surveyed my counter. I knelt down and opened the cabinet under the sink, then reached for that folded toilet paper again. I shook out one of the white pills and threw it into my mouth. I shut the door and swallowed it before grabbing a handful of water from underneath the faucet to help it down.

Gripping the edge of the counter, I looked into the mirror. The dark crescents under my half-shut eyes were more pronounced than before.

I opened the door and staggered back to the kitchen. Iann was standing over my drafting table with his back to me, and my heart sank. What was he looking at now?

He heard me behind him and turned around. “How do you feel?” he asked.

I made it to where he was standing and looked at the table. My sketchbook was laid open to the Mustache drawing. I laughed. “Why are you looking at this?”

He smiled. “I wanted to see how it turned out. He looks great.”

I leaned forward into Iann and kissed him. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I had vomited just moments earlier and pulled away. But he tugged me closer, pressing his warm lips harder against mine and putting his hand behind my ear.

He broke away after a moment. My heart fell through my body and dropped to the floor as he said, “I think you need to rest.”

I blinked sleepily. Maybe I had imagined him kissing me back. The regret renewed itself in the pit of my stomach.

He placed his arm around my shoulder and escorted me over to the edge of the bed. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

I lay curled up on my side and closed my eyes. I reopened them as I heard the shuffle of fabric. Iann was putting his jacket back on. “Don’t leave,” I called.

He turned around. “It’s okay. I’ll let myself out.” His cheeks were still flushed from the rum, and his eyes were drooping.

“I don’t want to be alone.” I closed my eyes again as the room began to shift.

Another rustling of fabric. He removed his jacket. The bed sank beside me as he sat down.

Still lying on my side, I looked up at him. “Is your dog going to be okay?” I asked.

He smiled. “Yeah, my roommate will take him out. I texted him earlier.”

I patted the bed next to me. “Lie down,” I slurred.

He lay on his side facing me, his hand supporting the side of his head.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I felt the heat of tears sting the backs of my eyes. This was why I only got drunk at home alone.