Shameless Flirt (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 0.50)

“You’ll be crying for your resident handyman then,” I reply.

“You’ll send us a how-to video, though,” Ashlee shouts over the splatter.

“I will . . . if you send me a pizza from John’s of Bleecker Street. I’ll pine for their cheese pies more than anything while I’m gone.” I turn toward the kitchen. “Well, maybe not more than Nolan’s cooking.”

My bespectacled friend and I share a nod of mutual appreciation. “And I’ll miss your sarcasm, TJ.”

“It’s a good thing we’re both great at something,” I say, heading his way.

Nolan turns off the burner and steps away from the stove, and I give my college bud a quick clap on the back. “Have fun, and good luck with your mission,” he says.

I stare at him in confusion. “What mission?”

“Dude, I’ve known you since freshman year. I know what you want to do in London, and I bought you a goodbye gift.” Nolan reaches for a Duane Reade bag on the kitchen counter and tosses it to me.

I peer inside and laugh. “Aww. I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow,” I say and hug the box of condoms to my chest.

Then, it’s time to go.

I leave the keys on the entryway table for the next roommate, and I take off for my new adventure.

My identical twin waits for me on the street. Since Chance is catching a flight to Florida, we’re sharing a ride to the airport. Plus, it’s extra time to say goodbye.

When my brother sees my luggage, he laughs. I’ve got only one carry-on and only one suitcase to check, and my younger-by-five-minutes brother is obviously not shocked. Once we’re in the taxi, he whips out his phone, clicks open his notes app, and thrusts it out so I can read it. “Called it,” he says.

The note—with a timestamp to prove it—is a spot-on prediction. For one year abroad: one carry-on, one check in.

I laugh. “You know me so well. It’s almost like we share DNA.” Chance has only his overnight bag on the seat next to him as the yellow car peels out of Queens.

“I also predict you’ll come home with a million books,” Chance says. “I remember when we were thirteen and Mom and Dad took us to London. You lugged home that entire suitcase full of paperbacks. We stopped in at that bookshop on Cecil Court, and you came out with so many books we had to drop them at the hotel before heading to Westminster Abbey.”

I’ve given most of those books away by now—the story of international teen spy Rhys Locke and the Hollywood bonkbusters from Caroline Vienna—but when I was an awkward, gangly teen, I devoured them and plotted a future. “I remember that bookshop fondly, and I plan to go back,” I say. “Maybe it’ll be my first stop.”

On the ride to JFK, we chat about our goals for the next few months, something we’ve always done since we were kids—sharing hopes and dreams. Now a ballplayer in his second year in the majors, Chance will be on the road a lot, pitching for the San Francisco Cougars, and he wants to establish himself as their closer, he says.

As for me, I want . . . a lot of things.

Things I haven’t admitted out loud to anyone.

I glance out the cab window, watching New York whip by. Will I miss this city when I’m overseas? I’ve always longed to experience different places, meet different people. More than that, I’ve wanted to create places and people for others to experience. I want to create something out of all the experiences I take in.

That last one, though, feels so personal and lives so close to my heart that I haven’t even dared to tell my brother, who knows me better than anyone. I didn’t share the idea when I was thirteen as it first took root. Not sure if I’m ready to voice it now.

“What about you?” Chance prompts in a lull in the conversation. He’s told me about his vision for himself as a pitcher. I suppose that means it’s my turn to crack open my heart.

Easier said than done.

I scratch my jaw and shrug. “Oh, you know. Try to grow a beard, eat some fish and chips, meet a hot dude. The usual.”

Chance rolls his eyes. “Liar.”

“What?” I protest. “That’s all true.”

“Yes, I know. But so are the things you’re not saying,” he says with certainty.

“Twin intuition?”

“Something like that.”

“What am I not saying, then?” I counter stubbornly.

He shoots me a no-bullshit stare. “There’s something else you want, TJ.”

I blow out a breath, wishing he didn’t read me so well. Sometimes it’s just simpler to keep your dreams to yourself. Chance’s goals are different. It’s a lofty ambition, being the closing pitcher for a professional baseball team, but he’s already on a team as a relief pitcher. Maybe it’s a tall ladder, but he’s on a rung.