Page 33 of Knot So Social

“You sure are,” I call, leaning inside to turn the porch light on. I grab Jeremy’s shoulders and steer him down the step and into the drive. “This is the man.”

The stranger holds out the keys. “All yours, then.”

Jeremy takes the key and stares at it. “Say what?”

“You can’t very well go to a job interview on public transport.” I chuckle. “Plus, half the time these organizations ask if you have your own vehicle.”

Jeremy’s eyes open wide as he digests the news. “This is for me? Holy shit, Joel. How much?”

I wave his question off. “Never mind that. Just don’t total this one, yeah?”

He punches me in the shoulder, and I laugh.

I fold my arms across my chest and watch as my twin inspects his new truck. It’s such a simple joy, that I have to wonder why I’ve been holding back from our relationship for the last few years.

Jeremy vaults up the step.

“Thanks, bro,” he cries, wrapping me in a bear hug. I wheeze from the strength of his grip.

“Whoa! You’re gonna crush me,” I protest.

He laughs and squeezes me tighter.

“If you’re done leaping around like a gazelle, can we go inside now? Could be mosquitos out.”

He snorts. “That won’t bother me.”

I flash him the middle finger and collect my bags off the porch. I’m a magnet for the little bloodsuckers; they’ll fly right past Jeremy to get to me.

Jeremy picks up the pot plant. “Oh, you got an aloe?”

“Just happened to see it. Smells like you.”

He lifts his brows. “You just happened to see it . . . at Seargent’s Greenhouse, which is nowhere near the grocery store?”

“Shut up,” I snap back. “Mind your own business.”

I lug the bags into the kitchenette and pull items out to stack on the countertop. His fridge was about empty, and we used the last pack of instant noodles.

Jeremy sets the plant down beside the TV and comes to help put things away. The football World Cup runs in the background, and we pause now and then when a good play comes on. Spain's team is on fire this year.

Once the kitchen’s cleaned up, except for a small pile of treatment stuff, I slap my hands down on the counter.

“Time to play doctor,” I announce.

Jeremy screws up his face. “Witchcraft, you mean.”

He starts unwinding his bandages anyway.

We share a grin. Mom’s a modern-day herbalist. Proper certification too; natural medicine something or other. And we grew up as her lab rats, with poultices applied on any scrapes and drinking putrid herb teas. Well, not all of them were terrible.

“I’m guessing you don’t want a honey bath?” I ask, holding up a big bucket of raw honey.

“Hard pass.”

I nod and collect the aloe plant, slicing the thick stems in half lengthwise.

Jeremy places an old sheet over his armchair and sits down. He peels off the stained bandages to reveal three deep lacerations and two shallower grazes that look like gravel rash. Together, the wounds cover from the back of his right hand to just past his elbow.