The Girl in the Mirror(9)
And I thought, Good for you, sister. Take your sweet time.
For me, the race was on.
3
The Switch
It’s dark when I touch down at Phuket’s international airport. I step from the static cool air of the plane into the swampy Thai night, and the tropical moisture presses on my skin.
I’m yawning as I cross the tarmac. It’s been a long flight, and I haven’t even adjusted to Queensland time. My body clock is still set for New Zealand. I have other adjustments to make, too. I’ve come from the mountains to the tropics, from the lonely snow of alpine New Zealand to teeming touristy Thailand. I’m sweating in the humid heat.
And I’m still wearing my wedding ring. At least I’ve escaped having to explain things to Annabeth, and all the crying I would have had to endure. Summer won’t pry. She knows all about me and Noah.
But that’s all behind me now. My last day in New Zealand, I went to a beauty parlor and treated myself, as my symbolic way of leaving Noah behind. I scrolled through my Facebook page, looking for a photo of me at my best so I could show the beautician how I liked my hair to be styled and my eyebrows to be shaped, but I couldn’t find one that looked right. In the end, I had to make do with an old photo of Summer that I happened to have in my wallet. Well, not that old. It was from her wedding day.
“Make me look like that,” I said to the girl.
“Gosh, I can hardly believe it’s you,” the little cow said. “Your eyebrows look so different. Weren’t you a beautiful bride? And your husband looks like a movie star!”
Our eyebrows are the only way people can tell Summer and me apart. My eyebrows are thicker and lighter. Summer’s are two neat dark lines, a surprising contrast to her golden hair, with an annoying sharp arch to them. But the beautician did a great job. She replicated them exactly.
Of course, I didn’t think I’d be seeing Summer straight after the eyebrow-and-hair job. It’s a little awkward as it looks like I’ve copied her, which is already something she seems to half believe. I can tell, although she never mentions it.
I’m wrangling my suitcase in the arrivals lounge when a strong arm lifts it out of my hands, and I’m wrapped in a muscular embrace. Adam.
“Twinnie,” he murmurs. “God, we’re glad you’re here!” He presses my face into his neck and holds me.
He smells sweet and musky, and his warmth catches me off guard. I’ve only met Adam a few times, on my visits home for family occasions such as his wedding to Summer, yet he always acts as though he knows me as well as he knows my sister, calling me by our twin nickname and including me in their in-jokes about the rest of our family. I hold my body still and remind myself that I’m his sister-in-law. Think sister. Friendly, not too friendly.
I look him in the eyes and frame a smile. “Adam! Good to see you. I was expecting Summer.”
Adam’s even taller than I remembered, and his voice is so deep it vibrates through me. His skin is tinted a beautiful red-gold; it’s not much darker than mine and Summer’s, but his black curls and radiant smile show that Africa has played a part in his heritage. Adam came to Australia as a teenager, the only child of globetrotting parents, and took to the country so zealously that his parents were persuaded to stay.
It’s the kind of move only Summer could pull off, after her endless succession of interchangeable surfer-blond boyfriends, this out-of-the-blue marriage to a widower who already has a kid. Coming from the Seychelles, a country I had barely heard of, Adam’s more glamorous and mysterious than a homegrown Australian husband could ever be. Of course, it helps that Adam runs a high-end travel agency and owns a clifftop mansion on Seacliff Crescent, one of Wakefield’s most exclusive streets.
“One of us has to stay with Tarq all the time,” Adam says. “The surgery went well, but he’s got to fight off the sepsis.” His tone is solemn.
Damn. I should have opened with a concerned inquiry about “Tarq.” Never mind; I’m sure I’ll be hearing plenty about him. “The poor little poppet,” I say with a frowny face.
“We need to get back to him,” Adam says. “He hasn’t woken up yet. I want to be there when he does. God, you’re the image of Summer, Twinnie. I’ll never learn to tell you two apart.” He hugs me again, a bear-like embrace. His face is in my hair. I swear he breathes in, like he wants to smell me.
Now he’s striding toward the exit, and I struggle to keep up. Seems we’re headed straight for the hospital. Am I facing an all-night bedside vigil? So much for cocktails at the marina.
The airport crowd is an even mix of Thai and farang, as they call us. I wonder as we sweep through the doors, do Adam and I look like husband and wife? It’s always obvious that he and Summer are a couple, despite their contrasting looks, but perhaps it’s marital bliss, radiating outward, that marks them as belonging together.
What do Adam and I radiate? Awkwardness? Whenever I’m with him, it’s hard not to think about how much Summer might have told Adam about me. The things he might know without being told. By being married to her, it’s like he’s seen me without my clothes.
Adam finds a taxi, opens the door for me, and helps me into the back seat. “Shove over,” he says with a smile as his thigh presses against mine.
I wriggle across the seat and wind down my window to breathe in the night. The driver sets off at a hectic pace. Typically, Adam has trouble remembering the name of the hospital.