Footsteps were behind her, Dustin’s hands on her shoulders. “Don’t run away. Please. I’m begging. She’s doing the same thing.”
“You weren’t anywhere near leaving until I came through the door. Not before. Not before. It’s me who’s making you do things you don’t want to do. Just admit what you want. I’ll be fine. Stop thinking you have to take care of me. I don’t need your help anymore.”
“For Christ’s sake. Stop. She’s crazy. I’m not interested in her.”
Fran approached them, humming, her voice becoming louder.
“No, I’m not going to stand here another minute and listen to this. God dammit, Dustin, get your hands off me.” She swung her arms and pushed against him with adrenaline-doused fury. He stumbled back but not enough to lose his balance.
“Please. Just listen to me.” He showed her his palms, shaking his head.
“Let her go, Dustin. She doesn’t want you. Come to think of it, I don’t want you. Why don’t you just let us be? Being buddies like the old days, well that’s not working out, is it?”
Claire didn’t know where she wanted to go, but she’d not go back inside with Fran. She didn’t have a choice though unless she wanted to travel on foot. She went inside, looped her fingers into her purse straps, and flew by Fran without making eye contact. She stopped at the doorway and whirled around.
“I feel sorry for you, Fran. You’re pathetic. Don’t think I’m so stupid not to know what you did years ago and what you did today. I don’t blame Dustin, if that’s what you think. I don’t blame you. It’s me. I should have set you straight when we were kids. Just because you were born seven minutes ahead of me, you think you’re superior. Guess again. I’m not the one sleeping around. For everything you have, you’re miserable. Go back to New York. We’re done. No more.”
“Shut up, little sister. I may sleep around but at least I’ve got real lovers. You live through me. I’ve just given you enough fodder for your next novel. You’re scared. That’s why you write. You wish you could be me. I don’t hide in front of a computer. I’m the fucking heroine in your next book.”
“Only if I was writing about a dysfunctional family with a wacko back-stabbing sister. Only then. One day you’ll push me too far and then we’ll see how this ends.” Claire took a couple of steps toward her sister. Fran’s eyes widened. Claire stopped and then turned. She wasn’t going to listen to anything more.
She walked out the door and down the porch steps. She pulled open the car door, gunned the engine, and floored the gas pedal, nearly bashing into Fran’s SUV. She sped out the driveway. There was only one place she could go. She drove without thinking, hardly recollecting how she arrived at Sugar Man’s Creek.
Once parked, she sat for a long time. This desolate stretch fed the lake. She cried herself past the stage of anger, past hurt, and huddled inside the car numb and drained. Her head throbbed from an awful headache. Not migraine material but darn close.
She didn’t have any painkillers and doubted she cared enough to do more than sit and stare. She replayed the scene a thousand times. Each time she rehashed it, Dustin seemed to be positioned closer to Fran and more interested in her sister’s body. She imagined what his expression might have been last night when Fran had sauntered over, testing the waters. All Fran’s little questions were nothing more than a questionnaire to help her decide if interfering was worth her effort. Claire inhaled a breath that felt like a serrated knife in her chest, straight to her heart. The pain was only outdone by the backstabbing delivered by her own twin flesh and blood.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, tried to stop the endless tears from flowing. She gazed at her wet fingers. She and Fran were lookalikes, but only in the flesh, nothing else. She closed her eyes, giving into exhaustion.
The first thing she noticed when she opened her eyes was a swarm of buzzing insects pelting her windshield. An owl hooted nearby. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. The country symphony was in full swing. How much time had passed? It was dark and a summer breeze entered from the open window, lifting her hair. She was hot and sticky inside the car. Her temples pounded and she had a crick in her neck. She tried to sit up and rested her head back against the seat. She inhaled, focusing on a slow measured filling of her lungs with air. She held onto the breath trying to use up all the oxygen it contained, even when the burning in her lungs begged for release, and then she did, not all at once, but little-by-little letting the used air slip away.