I don't reply to his text. Maybe I should make him worry a little bit. If we want to get technical, I did spend the past two nights in another man's bed. And it's true that Adam is a decent looking guy. Definitely handsome enough to make Grant self-conscious. Grant claims to have a swimmer's build, but that's just because he's tall and lanky. Adam isn't as tall as Grant, but he makes up for the height difference by being so … solid. He's not a meathead or anything, but Adam is strong. It was a completely different experience waking up on his chest than the times I've woken up on Grant's.
But Grant doesn't tap dance on my every last nerve, and there's something to be said for that. He doesn't test or challenge me either. Not that it matters. Why am I even comparing Grant to Adam anyway?
"Hey, why don't you go on home," Connie says walking up to my table. "I don't think anyone is coming in today. There's no point in the three of us being here."
"Three?" I echo.
"Wally," Connie says, and I hear the dog's nametag jingle from down the hall.
"Of course. I don't mind staying though. I could easily finish another dress today." I point at the gown hanging up next to me. All it needs is the straps to be taken in an inch or two.
"I'm not staying here so don't feel like you need to be here to keep me company. Go on home, drink some hot chocolate, and work on your own sewing projects. I know you're bound to have some orders waiting to be fixed up and shipped out."
"Just a dress for someone's cosplay," I admit sadly. I started my online shop to create and sell custom pieces but, more often than not, I get commissioned to recreate a costume from a video game or fantasy movie. It's not that those costumes aren't fun to make, but I just wish it were something that was my own vision. I know Connie's dress design isn't much different from what I do for these people dressing up for conventions but, with her design, I'm able to pick my own fabrics and make at least some choices that will affect the overall appearance of the gown.
Plus, she has no idea that I'm making the gown. It's a secret and, even though I won't get paid for making the dress, I'll get to see the look of surprise on her face and that's worth more than a commission.
Unless she hates it, rightly accuses me of snooping and stealing a design, and then fires me, that is.
Why did I think this was a good idea again?
Chapter Thirteen
"You're up to something sneaky," Hank says as soon as I answer my phone. No hi, no hello, no nothing. Just an automatic accusation. It's almost like talking to Mom.
"No, I'm not. I'm lying in bed and looking at an exhibit that the Met has about Orry-Kelly. Did you know that he and Cary Grant shared an apartment at one point? It's rumored that they were lovers."
"I don't even know what an Oreo Korea is. You're up to something."
"Orry-Kelly," I correct him. "He was a costume designer. And do I need to remind you who Cary Grant is?"
"Wasn't he a president?"
I smack my palm against my forehead. How is my idiot brother an accountant? And how did he get better grades than me in school?
"Yes, Hank. Cary Grant, actor in His Girl Friday, Charade, and North by Northwest, was also one of the nation's presidents."
I hear him sigh into the phone and I smile. If I accomplish nothing else in this life, I will have, at the very least, forced my twin brother to learn something about classic Hollywood. I know it's not much in the way of legacies, but Hollywood trivia and skill with a sewing machine are all I have to offer.
"Don't get off topic. You're up to something, I can feel it," Hank says. "You know that I'm never wrong when it comes to this sort of thing. Our connection is too strong."
I set my tablet down, knowing that I won't be able to appreciate Orry-Kelly's designs while on the phone with Hank.
"We've talked about not calling attention to the whole twin connection thing. It freaks people out. And, yes, I know it's there," I say before he can interject, "but stop bringing it up. And I'm not up to anything, honest."
"Really? You're not tricking Grant into eloping?"
"No."
"Making an online dating profile for Mom?"
"Eww, definitely not."
"Are you doing something to Rachel?"
I'm silent a millisecond too long.
"What are you up to, Evie?"
"It's not just me. Adam's helping," I spit out the words. That's right, if I'm going down, I'm taking Adam with me. This was partially his idea, and he's not here to defend himself.
"Who the hell is Adam?"
"Carter's roommate. You know, the guy with the glasses that runs the bakery?"
"I thought you hated him."
"We found a cause greater than openly despising each other. We're going to make sure that Carter and Rachel get married."
I can almost see the face that Hank is making on the other end of the phone. His eyes are closed and his lips have gone thin as he shakes his head back and forth slowly as he takes a deep breath, trying to process how he and I can have so much shared DNA and be so drastically different.
He's just as conniving as I am, he just doesn't want to admit it to himself.
"Evie, you're my sister and I love you. But you're a dumbass."
"Hey kettle, glad to talk to you again. It's pot. How are things?" I ask, smiling at my own stupid joke. "Hank, come on. You know Rachel and Carter belong together. You've got to let your crush on her go."
"This isn't about that," he says, and I'm happy that he doesn't deny the feelings he so obviously has for Rachel. "You're interfering with people's lives. Don't push it, okay?"
"I'm not holding a gun to their heads," I mumble, a wave of guilt that I don't know is entirely warranted hitting me square in the chest. When did Hank get the upper hand on me? "Besides, they've dealt with so much. The car wreck and the tornado-"
"All tragic, I'm not downplaying that. But they're also excuses. You can get married without an elaborate wedding," Hank says, not waiting for me to finish. "I know she's your best friend and that you think I'm saying this because I like Rachel, but deep down you know that I'm right. Those two are in over their heads, and you and this Adam guy aren't helping. I know you have an innate need to fix everything but this is something meant to stay broken."
"But they've been working toward this wedding for so long," I mumble, not wanting to acknowledge the feeling in my gut that Hank may be right.
"And you don't think they're doing that out of obligation?"
"No, I think they're desperate to prove that they can get married, forces of nature be damned."
"But that's not love, Evie. Just stay out of it, okay?" he asks but doesn't wait for me to agree. "How are you doing with, you know, today?"
Today is February 3. Today would have been Dad's fifty-second birthday. I had wondered if Hank was going to bring it up. I had been debating whether or not to check in on Hank. I'm glad he beat me to it.
"I'm okay," I say as I trace the pattern of my quilt with my finger. "I went to work. Did you go to work?"
"Yeah. I wanted to keep my mind occupied."
"Me too," I say, and then our conversation falls flat. Hank and I can talk to or at each other about anything in the world, except Dad. We never give a damn about what we say to each other but, when it comes to Dad, we act like strangers. Everything is short small talk. I don't know if Hank's afraid that he's going to upset me or if he can't handle the topic and, frankly, I wonder the same thing. So we have a forced conversation about Dad every three months. I'm sure it will all come to a horrible head in our later years. For now, though, this is all we can do.
"I should probably go. I'm meeting someone at the movies."
"Is it the same girl you met for coffee a couple weeks ago?" I ask, happy to have a conversation change.
"I plead the fifth," Hank says and I know he's about to hang up the phone to avoid discussing any more emotions.
"Hank, wait," I half-shout into my phone.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
He laughs. "Love you too, sis," he says and the line goes dead.
I settle back into bed and reach for my tablet. I need to go to the grocery, and I have no excuse. Most of the snow has melted, save for the huge mountains shoveled in parking lots, and it's currently above freezing outside. Grant even texted me to hang out tonight. I'm just not feeling it, though. All I want to do is lie in my bed and zoom in as far as my tablet will allow on photos of Old Hollywood movie costumes to see every line of thread and each patch of beadwork. I think I'm allowed to feel this way today.
My phone dings thirty minutes later. I expect it to be Grant, or maybe Rachel finally taking me seriously about her barging in to my apartment whenever she damn well pleases.
I never expect it to be Adam texting me.
"I overestimated mine and Carter's appetites and made too much food. Have you had dinner yet?" - sent at 6:21 p.m.