“I’ll call the police!” I warn, holding the phone up like it’s a weapon.
The man on the bed is white-faced and stricken and looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“You can’t just come into a woman’s house and get into her bed.” Shit. Now I’m trying to reason with a sex offender. Jesus. But he’s just sitting there. Is that normal?
His expression goes from confused to desolate as he skims his eyes over my bruised face. “Damn. What happened to you, angel?”
I fumble with my phone, pressing the button on the side and trying to get it to light up. Nothing. It’s dead. Why didn’t I charge it before I fell asleep last night?
He pushes off the bed, and I back into a corner, arms wrapped around myself. “Leave. Please.”
He holds up his hands and takes a step toward me. “Hanna, baby. Tell me what happened. Tell me—”
I press my body as close to the wall as I can. I should have locked myself in the bathroom or something. I am one of those too-dumb-to-live heroines you see in horror movies. Especially since the thing keeping me here—keeping me from running to safety—is the hurt on his face. I’ve always been the kind of person who tries to make people happy, but this is ridiculous.
Think, Hanna. Okay, I’ll need a description for the cops. Tall—taller than Max, maybe—messy dark hair, an Incredible Hulk tattoo on his right shoulder, some numbers tattooed above his left pec. God, is he an ex-con? Don’t convicts get numbers tattooed on themselves?
He steps closer, and a shudder runs through me.
“Please don’t hurt me.” I sink to the floor and cross my arms in front of my face.
His gaze catches on my left hand, and his jaw goes hard. “I see.” He backs off and grabs something off the floor. Then he’s tugging a shirt over his head. It falls into place and covers that amazing body.
Amazing body? What the eff is wrong with me?
As stupid as it is, I don’t believe this man is here to hurt me. There’s nothing intimidating about his body language, and even though his face has gone hard and angry, there’s no violence in his eyes.
He grabs his jeans. “You could have told me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice cracks.
Jeans unbuttoned and half up his hips, he’s heading toward the door. Stupidly, I follow him. My hands are shaking, my head spinning.
He grabs the doorknob and goes still, but he doesn’t look at me. “When I was touching you just now”—he swallows—“you thought I was…”
“I thought you were my fiancé.” The whisper seems to swell in the small space and vibrate off the walls.
He punches the wall beside the door. “You and Max have a nice life.” Then he’s leaving, slamming the door behind him and making the whole room rattle. And me right along with it.
“SO DID Max stay over last night?” Lizzy sets a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me and stirs cream into her own, all the while avoiding my gaze.
“Can I have some of that?”
“Cream? As in, empty calories? For healthier-than-thou Hanna?”
I’ve been drinking coffee since I was sixteen, and I’ve been taking cream in it for just as long. I try a sip without and shake my head. My memory loss apparently includes how to enjoy black coffee. “Yes, please.” I snag the cream before she can make any more comments.
We’re at a table in the front of my bakery, the OPEN sign glowing into the darkness of Main Street.
I convinced myself not to call her last night. I’d wanted to. I’d been confused and scared, and the most natural instinct had been to call Liz. After the man left my apartment, I ran to find my phone charger and plug in my phone. I stared at the screen as it came to life, but I kept thinking of the way the man’s face had changed when his gaze landed on my ring. My mind kept repeating the deep rumble of his voice as he’d said, “You and Max have a nice life.”
It wasn’t confusion or fear that made me decide not to call her. As I sank to the edge of my bed and settled my head in my hands, adrenaline still hummed through my veins, but the frantic, clawing fear was gone. In its place boiled red-hot shame.
“So, Max?” Lizzy asks. She holds up her hands. “Not that it’s my business.”
There’s something different in our relationship. We could always say anything to each other, though we often didn’t have to. An exchanged glance was usually enough to let her know how I was feeling. But there’s a rift between us now. I can sense it even if I can’t explain it. I noticed first at the hospital—not so much by the way she acted when she was around, but more because of how often she wasn’t around. I kept expecting her to be the one coming into my room to keep me company, but nine times out of ten, it was someone else.
All my life, people have asked me what it’s like to be a twin. They want me to explain our connection. Trying to explain to someone what it’s like to have a twin sister is like trying to explain what it’s like to have a pulse. I don’t know any other way. All I know is that her smile is attached to my heart. I float when she’s happy, and when she’s sad, my world is a puzzle with a missing piece.