The Twins & Me

First Kiss

I nearly drop my laptop as I slide it into my bag. "Um, no, not until my next class."

He stands, grinning down at me. "You drink coffee?"

I follow suit and get to my feet; the hall is rapidly clearing of students and in the bustle, new ones are coming in for the next class. "Sure."

"Alright then," he decides, leading the way out of the row. "I'd ask where you'd want to go, but I'm assuming this is literally your first day on campus."

I let out a breath. "You'd be right."

"Then follow me."

And so we make our way out of the building and down the street outside. He's a great deal taller than me—I barely come up to his chest. We walk side-by-side, and in the light I can study him better. His dark curls stick out in nearly all directions, almost covering his eyes until he pushes them from his forehead. He's got a straight nose and a thin scar on his chin. A small sleeve of line tattoos sprout on his forearm, and I have the sudden urge to take his arm so I can see them all.

Obviously, I don't.

"You're not from here, then," he says suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

I shake my head. "No, we're from a little town in Connecticut."

"We?" He glances at me.

"Mhmm, me and my sister. She graduated Laurent a few years ago, but stayed in the city."

He has an oddly relieved look on his face.

"What about you?" I ask, because if he asks any more questions he's going to know my entire life story. "Any siblings?"

This time he looks away from me. "Yeah, a brother."

"You two close?"

He lets out a laugh, almost like he's sharing an inside joke with himself. "As far as twins go, I suppose we are."

"Really?" I say, a little too enthusiastically. "I've never met a twin before."

He snorts, biting his lip. "Am I everything you ever dreamed of?"

I make a show of looking him up and down. "Yes, this is exactly what I expected."

He shakes his head at me, still grinning.

After only a few more minutes of walking, we come to a small coffee shop set into a brick building facing a large church. Tables sit out front on the sidewalk and the door is painted a bright aqua color. Arlo holds the door open for me and we step inside.

The ceiling is high and exposed, revealing ductwork and large, industrial light fixtures. The floor is cement but is nearly covered in rugs and small, mismatched tables. A large coffee bar takes up the back, and the smell of espresso hits us as soon as we enter. The walls are covered with framed pictures and shelves holding hundreds of mugs.

"This is so cute," I whisper, more to myself, but Arlo hears me over the soft acoustic playing out of a jukebox.

"It's a nice place to study," he says softly, watching me. But then, with a smile, he adds, "When I get around to it."

I roll my eyes. My heart thrums.

He pays for our drinks, even though I offer to cover mine, and soon we're seated on rickety chairs with foaming lattes in front of us.

"Thanks, for this," I say. He has no idea how much better he's made me feel, though I'm not big enough of a dork to tell him that.

But he reads the expression on my face and offers a soft smile. "This is going to sound so fucking lame, but Art History is the first class I've taken without Oliver."

Oliver—I know at once that's his brother. The way he says his name, like it's passed his lips a million times before, tells me all I need to know about how close they are.

"Why's that?" I ask tentatively.

He shrugs and looks away, embarrassed. "He bet me I couldn't do it—something without him. I almost left, as soon as I got there. But then you said, 'it's okay' and I knew it was."

My pulse quickens; no one's ever admitted to me that I made a difference like that. Not even Noah when he told me he loved me for the first time. "I almost couldn't get out of my sister's car this morning," I find myself blurting. "But then I got a text from my Mom and everything was better after that."

He laughs, and then I laugh, and then we're laughing together.

I have Art History three times a week, and it's by far my favorite class. Not only because I'm finding a genuine interest in art, but because I'm growing to crave my time with Arlo. The way when we're sitting in the dark of the lecture hall and he bumps his leg against mine. And after, when we go to our coffee shop. He even walks me to my next class, completely ignoring my protests because his starts at the same time and I know he's late every day.

Occasionally he'll get a call from Oliver and he has to cut out early, and while I don't mind because I know what it's like to have a sibling, his demeanor will always shift after speaking with his brother.

I've also traded out my Noah memory for a complete fantasy involving Arlo—though in real life we've only gotten so far as to hold hands.

Three weeks into the semester and we're sitting next to each other in a booth against the wall of the coffee shop, our notes spread out between us because our first test is on Friday. Our backpacks are tucked into the chairs across from us so we have an excuse to take up the same side of the booth.

"There's no way you can read this," I say, holding up one of his sheets of paper to my face; his handwriting is awful and his paper is covered in doodles.

"It's impressionistic," he says, watching me.

"Pretty sure this isn't what Monet had in mind."

"This is the third time you brought that dude up in front of me—I know you're wet for him, Wren—"

I gasp, clasping my hand over his mouth. "Monet doesn't get me hot. His art does."

Arlo rolls his eyes and yanks my hand away from his lips, but he doesn't let me go.

"And what's that supposed to be?" I ask, pointing to something long drawn near the bottom of the page.

"That's an actual representation of my penis," he says in a low voice.

I let out a loud laugh and push the paper back towards him.

But he's not laughing. Hair falling into his eyes, he takes my face with his free hand and pulls me close.

For a moment I'm not even sure what's happening, not until our faces are so close hardly a breath separates them.

He pauses, eyes boring into mine intensely.

I close the space between us. My lips part as our mouths meet, inhaling his sweet scent and the subtle taste of coffee on his tongue. My hands find his chest and tug on his shirt, drawing him nearer. His fingers tangle in my hair and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to moan into his mouth.

"Baby brother," comes a voice from beyond our table.