Without giving me a moment to decide, Audrey wrapped her arm around mine and led me toward the steps down to the underground club. The contrast of our coats, black leather and soft white, was stark and alarming. We were the Yin and Yang, balance, and for the first time since meeting her, I wondered if maybe that could be a good thing.
After heading inside, she made a beeline to the reader list.
"Okay, you put your name down first," Audrey instructed, offering the pen to me.
"Why can't you go first?" I asked, eyeing the ballpoint skeptically.
"Because I want to make sure that we're both reading," she reasoned with an encouraging smile. She insistently tried to pass the pen into my empty hands. "Come on, Blake. Don't leave me hanging."
She was grinning at me, unbothered by my persistent scowl as I stared at the implement in her hand. Finally, I took it with a begrudging sigh and quickly scribbled my name on the first empty line.
"You can write mine down, too," Audrey said, her smile unrelenting, and so I put the tip of the pen to the line beneath mine. She watched as I scrawled her name in my trademark sloppy cursive. Chicken scratch, my mom always called it. She’d always thought I should practice neater handwriting, but Audrey's lips closed, hiding her teeth, and her smile shrunk to something smaller and more contemplative. "I like the way you write my name," she complimented.
"Huh?" I laid the pen down and stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
"Your handwriting is so pretty." Her fingers touched the dried ink and traced the A with her nail.
I couldn't help but laugh. "My mom hates it," I admitted. "She always complains that it's too messy."
Audrey looked up to smile into my eyes. "Messy can still be beautiful."
The simple statement immediately reminded me of those lame quotes girls came into the shop looking for. But this felt different and didn't feel like something she'd read online. It felt like something that was written on the spot and made special, just for me.
She thought my handwriting was beautiful—did she think I was beautiful? That seemed unlikely, but so did all of this, walking through the poetry club with her on my arm and finding a vacant table to sit at. She looked to me as though I was more than how I felt, like a gallant hero, or a noble gentleman. For a moment, I chose to play the part she seemed to squeeze me into and pulled out her chair.
"Thank you," she said gratefully, removing her coat to reveal her light blue top. Adorned in lace, it clung to her arms, and the hem blossomed out to hang loosely around her narrow hips. Her skintight jeans complemented it well, accentuating the length of her legs and the heels on her feet.
If I stared too long, I wondered too much. What the fuck was she doing here with me? Hell, what the fuck was I doing here with her?
"You look like you wanna run away," Audrey said quietly, hanging her coat from the back of the chair.
Was it that obvious? I forced a pained smile, and without answering her question, I asked, "Do you want something to drink?"
Her smile fell. "Um ... I guess a Manhattan?" Her voice was apologetic, and I remembered she wasn't familiar with drink ordering. "What are you going to get?"
"Probably a gin and tonic. Or maybe an Old Fashioned."
Audrey smiled then. "How about you just get me whatever you're getting?"
"What if you don't like it?"
She shrugged lightly. "How am I supposed to know if I like something if I don't try it?"
My head bobbed in a slow nod. "Good point. I'll be right back," and I headed toward the bar.
I ordered two gin and tonics and waited for them to be made. Every two seconds, I found myself looking back toward the table, to check on Audrey. To make sure she was still there. To remind myself that this was real. I wiped a hand over my dry lips and shook my head.
"You okay, boss?" the bartender asked, sliding the two glasses toward my waiting hands.
"Yeah, I'm good," I told him, leaving a few bills on the bar and taking the glasses. "Thanks."
But I wasn't good. I was shaken and in denial, expecting her to admit this was all a joke, an elaborate set up. Maybe it was an experiment the good doctor was conducting, to see how I'd react in the situation. All of it, an extravagant role-play scenario I wasn't aware of.
I headed back to the table and placed a glass in front of her before sitting down in the chair beside hers. She smiled sweetly and thanked me for the drink. I nodded and lifted my glass to my lips, but before I could take a sip, she asked, "What should we drink to?"
I allowed a light chuckle at the question. "We don't need to drink to anything."
"Do you drink a lot?"
I considered the question and then shook my head. "Not really. Maybe a couple drinks a week, I guess. Why?"
"Then, this is a special occasion," she declared. "So, we should drink to something."
And I actually gave it some thought. I lowered my glass and pursed my lips, ignoring the droning of the poet currently on the stage. I shook my head, coming up empty, and admitted, "I got nothin’."
Audrey tapped a finger against my wrist and said, "I know. We should drink to us."
"Us?" The word rolled sour against my tongue. Us felt like we were something, together, and that's not what this was. There was no us.
But Audrey nodded assuredly. "Yes, us. The better twins." She still wore that bright smile, but there was a darkness in those words, lacing between the letters and tying them tight, bringing them together. And that was something I understood. Darkness. I thrived in its shadows and knew its deepened corners well.
"What does that mean?" I asked, folding my arms and forgetting about my drink.
Audrey shrugged and wrapped her manicured fingers around the glass. "You know what I mean, Blake."
I shook my head. "No, I don't think I do."
"Jake became disabled, right?”
"Yes."
Her eyes met mine. "My sister became very sick."
Better. Burdened. Guilty. It was all the same, and then, I understood. I nodded solemnly and lifted my glass.
"To being the burdened twins," I corrected, using my own words.
But Audrey shook her head. "Not burdened, Blake. Just better," and her glass clinked against mine.
***
His face, like mine,
His height, the same.
But his mind is different,
And I'm to blame.
Starved and forbidden,
Unable to thrive,
They say it's a miracle,
He's even alive.
But what kind of god,
Shuns one of his own?
What kind of father,
Leaves his child alone?
Audrey waited at the table as I walked back, tearing up the poem as I went. An expression of horror blanketed her features as I returned. When I asked what that look was for, she questioned, "Why did you just do that?"
"Do what?"
"Tear it up!" she exclaimed exasperatedly, thrusting her hand toward my fist where the torn-up shreds of paper remained.
"What's the point in keeping it?" I countered, sitting down and grabbing my glass. It was my third drink. I never drank more than one, but tonight, it was three. Would there be a fourth?