Page 33 of My Twin Sister

I was twelve. I walked inside and everyone’s eyes shot to me. I shouted out the message I’d been sent to deliver and watched Mr. Grant jump to his feet and run past me. I lingered for a second until the bartender, mean old Teddy Birmingham, yelled at me to get out.

Teddy Birmingham is dead now. He died before I did. I don’t know this bartender. She’s young and barely looks old enough to be here. I order a vodka soda and tell myself I’ll drink it slow. I sip it quietly while I get a sense of what’s going on around me. There are two older guys a few seats down at the bar. They chat casually.

There’s a group of people at the pool tables, a handful of men and a few women. I can’t tell just yet if I know them or what their dynamics are with each other. There’s an older couple at one of the booths against the wall. And in between the bar and the booths are high-top tables where a group of guys laugh and talk louder than anyone else in the bar. Some are middle-aged, some younger. These are my group of cops.

I chug the rest of my drink and order another one. I’ll drink this next one slow. When I get my new drink, I stand and take it with me to the jukebox. It’s one of those new ones I can do from my phone, but I need to put myself in the sight of the men, and I can’t do that being quiet at the bar.

I tap the screen to look through different songs and land on one that I like but won’t piss off the entire bar. When I walk back to my seat, I take a route that passes right by the group of men. I feel eyes on me. I glance over and make eye contact with a guy that looks about my age, maybe slightly younger. I smile at him and return to my seat, hoping it’s enough.

I order a basket of fries, sit back onto my stool, and sip my drink. When the guy doesn’t come up to me after a few minutes I start strategizing another way to get into a conversation with one of them. Maybe I’ll just walk right up and inject myself into the group. The bartender delivers my fries and I reach for one, but another hand reaches from behind me and takes one.

I spin around, about to defend my fries with physical force, but stop when I see the guy I smiled at.

“Mind if I take a few? I could use something to soak up the booze,” he says with a grin.

Normally, I’d tell him to order his own fries and possibly add a few expletives, but this is my plan in motion, so I smile back.

“Help yourself.”

He maneuvers onto the stool next to me and takes another fry. Close up, he looks like he’s in his late twenties or early thirties. He’s attractive in an understated way. He’d probably be more attractive if I weren’t still harboring resentment over my stolen fries.

“I’m Garrett, by the way.”

He holds out his hand and I shake it. His palm is warm and thankfully dry.

“Grace,” I say.

“Oh, I know who you are, Grace Chandler.” He chuckles. “Everyone knows who you are. The girl back from the dead.”

“I didn’t die,” I say.

He nods slowly, his lips curled up like he’s thinking about how I’d taste. “No you did not.”

I do my best flirting and keep ordering us rounds of drinks. He doesn’t notice that I’ve stopped ordering myself drinks. As long as I pretend to sip from my empty one, he stays focused on me. And on my cleavage.

A few of his friends come up and try to mess with him but he shoos them away. I ask him questions about his job, which I clocked the moment I saw him standing in the group he was in, but pretend to be surprised when he tells me he’s a police officer.

He tells me he’s been an officer here for the past five years. He moved here for the job from Traverse City because he wanted to be a cop but not in a bigger city. He lives in an apartment above the deli one block from here. He wants to take me home.

I make him work harder for it.

“I can’t go home with a strangerrr,” I say flirtatiously. I try to sound drunk.

“I’m not a stranger, baby. We’ve been getting to know each other all night.”

I put my hand on his leg and lean into him. “You have to tell me a secret.”

“A secret?”

I nod. “Friends know secrets about each other.”

He looks up at the ceiling, thinking. He sways to the side, and I reach out to keep him from falling.

“Hmmm . . . I can’t think of one.”

“Oh, come on! You’re a cop. I’m sure you have plenty of secrets.”

“What does me being a cop have to do with secrets?” he says.