Sure Thing

I pull the navy dress out of my suitcase because Daisy’s right about that too. It’s a great dress and it looks fantastic on Daisy, which by default means it’s going to look fantastic on me. One of the biggest benefits of being a twin is having a built-in fit model.

I am sort of surprised she lent it to me though, it’s one of her favorites. She packed a lot of great outfits for me this week, which was sweet of her. It’s not that I don’t have clothes of my own, it’s just that my wardrobe leans towards professional, whereas hers leans towards Pinterest board goals.

But it was nice of her because in sisterhood nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like lending your favorite dress.

I blow-dry my hair and use a wide-barreled curling iron to add a few casual tousled waves, the kind of casual that you put a lot of effort into. I keep my eye on the clock as I get ready because Jennings is picking me up. I told him I’d meet him in the lobby and he insisted that on a proper first date he’d pick me up at the door.

I told him that on a real first date I’d never let him pick me up at the door because he could be a serial killer. Or possibly just an annoying asshole who I wouldn’t want having my address. Or maybe the date would be so painfully bad that I’d have to bail early by secretly texting a friend to call me with a fake emergency and then I’d need my own car to get the hell out of there.

He stared at me without saying anything for a moment, his head tilted to the side and his fingers running across his jaw. Then we agreed that I’d overlook my normal first-date protocols this time, which is just as well because I don’t have sex on first dates either and I have no intention of sticking to that rule tonight.

I slide my feet into my favorite pair of sandals and am sliding earrings on when Jennings knocks at the door. I grin, suddenly stupid excited about tonight. It’s been forever since I went on a date with someone new and my stomach is filled with unexpected butterflies as I swing open the door. Butterflies that don’t settle when I see him. He’s showered as well, his hair clearly the slightest bit damp. He’s in another button-down shirt, which I haven’t seen him in since the first night. This one is white, the sleeves rolled back to mid-forearm, which I notice immediately because one arm is braced against the doorway and the other hand is holding flowers.

“Roses,” he says, holding them up. “I was going to get you daisies but then I figured every guy brings you daisies, but how many men can you possibly have given the alias Rose to?” He winks at me when he says it, confident that Rose is our thing, that I don’t go around giving out fake names to men. He’s correct.

“I’m glad they’re not daisies,” I tell him as I take them from his hand, almost laughing at the idea that every guy brings me flowers. My high-school boyfriend would buy me a single rose whenever there was a school fundraiser. Student council would deliver them to classrooms during second period and the girls would carry them from class to class for the remainder of the day. I’m sure if I opened an old yearbook I’d find one still pressed inside. One time I got a delivery at work from my ex. It was my birthday and I’m pretty sure he ordered them that morning for same-day delivery from a local florist because he’d forgotten, but it was still nice. But a parade of flowers? No.

He’s also correct about the daisies—Daisy has received them an unseemly number of times and she loves them, but they’re her, not me. Of course Jennings can’t know that, but I’m grateful that he thought of the roses. That he picked out something specific to the two of us. The last thing I’d have wanted was a bouquet of daisies staring me in the face reminding me of my big fat lie.

“They’re perfect, thank you,” I tell him as I grab the hotel-provided ice bucket and fill it with a few inches of water in the bathroom sink. I set it next to the television and stick the flowers inside. It’s not the right kind of container and they sort of slump to the side and yet it’s perfect. Perfectly imperfect.

“Ready?” he asks, but he’s directly behind me, running a fingertip down the exposed side of my neck. I shiver and turn to face him.

“I’m ready.”

“You look smashing, love.” He says it softly, his eyes dancing over my face, and I think he’s going to kiss me—he’s standing so close I can feel the heat of his body—but he simply takes my hand and leads me to the door. We hold hands all the way to the elevator, our fingers entwined and my pulse racing. I’m not entirely sure why. He’s not exactly new to me and this isn’t a real first date. It’s a third or fourth date at least, isn’t it? God, how many days ago was that first night? How is it that I already feel like I’ve known him forever? How have I forgotten a world before Jennings in less than a week? I’m tumbling head over heels like a foolish puppy tripping over its own feet.

Or a fool falling in love when this relationship has an expiration date shorter than the date on a carton of milk.

Is this real? Or an illusion brought on by close quarters and explosive chemistry? It’s so easy between us, but is it easy because it’s temporary? A trip to an amusement park is exhilarating for a day or two, but it would be a nightmare if you went every single day for an entire year, wouldn’t it? I bite my bottom lip and glance at him under my lashes. The elevator doors slide open and our hands part as we enter and he jabs the button for the lobby.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, love?” His head is tilted and one brow raised in question and I wonder how he knows to ask me this based on one quiet walk down a hallway.

“I was just wondering if you like amusement parks.” Close enough.

“Is that a hard limit for you? Whether or not your dates enjoy the Tilt-A-Whirl?” His response is light, but I caught the quick blink that tells me he didn’t buy my response to his question.

“I like them, but I tend to get motion-sick after a couple of rides,” I admit with a shrug. Is this a metaphor for my love life as well? Get in and out before anyone gets dizzy? “I never get sick of the arcade games or the cotton candy though.”

“If it’s not a deal-breaker, then I’ll admit theme parks aren’t my first choice of holiday. Of course, I’d never have picked a tour of American historic sites either and it’s turning out to be far more”—he pauses and eyes me slowly—”lively than I’d expected.”

I blush. He has a way of making a simple response sound indecent. I clear my throat before speaking. “What would your preference have been?”

“When I have the time? Skiing.”

“I’ve never been skiing.”

“No?” He glances at me and starts to say something then stops. I wonder if he’s stopping himself from making a throwaway comment about the future such as, We should go sometime.

We’ve exited the lobby of the hotel and I expect to get into a cab, but he guides me towards a waiting black SUV, so I assume he’s called an Uber. I guess this means we’re not going to the pancake house across the street, which makes me giggle.

Jennings slides into the back of the SUV after me and takes my hand, kissing the back of it. “Something funny?”

I tap my finger against the window in the direction of the International House of Pancakes across the street. “IHOP,” I tell him. “It’s a chain restaurant. When we were kids my sister called it ‘I Jump’ till we were like…” I stop. I can’t tell him we’re the same age, that’s way too much information. “Till she was like seven,” I finish. “That’s a stupid story. I don’t know why I told it to you.”

“It’s not a stupid story. I enjoyed hearing it. Are you close with your sister?”

You could say that, since we’re identical twins and I’m wearing her clothes and living in her apartment. “She’s my other half. Do you have any siblings?”

“Two half-sisters. I don’t really know them. We grew up in different households and they’re much younger than I am. They were raised in Scotland. I’ve only met them a handful of times actually.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Scotland is lovely. It’s hardly a tragic situation.”

“No.” I laugh. “No offense to Scotland. I meant I was sorry you weren’t closer with your sisters. I can’t imagine life without my sister.”

“Yeah, well. It is what it is.” He runs a hand over his jaw but otherwise doesn’t give away if this is something that bothers him. “I’ve a cousin I’m close with. He’s like a brother to me. You’d like him, I think. He’s got your American sense of humor.”

“Your cousin is American?” I twist in my seat so I can see him. “How does that happen?”

He laughs as the car pulls onto Richmond and accelerates through a green light. “You need me to explain the basics to you, love? You seem a smart girl.”

“No.” I thump his chest with my palm. “I just meant my entire family lives in Illinois. My parents. My sister. Aunts, uncles, grandparents. One cousin moved to Pittsburgh and another moved to Orlando but everyone else is nearby. It’s not as though I have a random German cousin.”