Love Over Matter (16 page)

“
You all right?” he asked,
the raccoon scampering out of sight.

“
Sure. I think
so.”

He gave me a head-to-toe once-over,
then, with a sly grin, said, “Leave it to you.”

I reminded him, “This was your
idea.”

He slung a friendly arm around my
shoulder, making me wish a cougar would materialize to nip at my
toes. “I guess maybe you’re right.”

chapter 13

The outcome of my
computer’s overzealous messaging was not what I expected. In fact,
it was the polar opposite, considering that instead of despising me
or concluding I was a lunatic stalker, Aleks Smullen thanked
me—
thanked me!!!
—for telling him about George and their mother, whose story he
seemed to be on the trail of without my meager assistance. What he
proposed next, though, left me gobsmacked.

Ready?

The beautiful, mysterious
twin of my dead love wants to come to Milbridge. And stay with me
(or, well, my family). And meet George’s adoptive parents. And,
ideally, buddy up to George’s friends too. Which, to be honest, is
creeping me out a tad. I mean, he can’t
become
George. He knows that,
right?

I stalled him with a good excuse: the
parents. And it wasn’t a lie either. As much as they love me (and
LOVED George), it wasn’t a slam dunk that they were going to let a
strange boy (I guess, technically, Aleks is a man, the thought of
which stings, since George never reached that eighteenth birthday
milestone) crash at our house—and into our lives. When I brought up
the idea over breakfast, though: another surprise. They couldn’t
wait to meet him. Mom and Dad both. In unison, they’d squealed,
“Absolutely!”

Freaky weird. Now I just have to let
Aleks know so we can hammer out the details of his visit, which
will be virtually immediate due to the impending fall
semester.

He’s messaged me his cell number, so I
dial it. As soon as the phone starts ringing, my pulse goes
haywire. “Hello?” I hear in George’s soft, warm voice. Out of
everything, that’s what gets me most: they sound the
same.

“
Uh, hi. It’s
Cassie.”

“
Oh, hey there.”

“
So I, um, talked to my
parents . . .”

“
And?”

This is surreal. I can’t get over the
feeling that we know each other. “They’re up for it. They can’t
wait to meet you. George was sort of like their third kid,
so . . .” Okay, that was icky to admit, but also
pretty much true.

He mumbles something out of range of
the phone, then tells me, “Great. I’ll see you Saturday then?
Around four?”

I give my schedule a mental
run-through. “Actually, I have work until five.” We’ve lost two
waitresses in the past week, so Mom and Dad need me to fill in.
“Maybe you can come later? Or, well, just pop in to the
restaurant?”

I practically see his face wrenching
in concentration. “The restaurant?”

“
Sorry,” I say. “I
forget. . . . Anyway, yeah. It’s called The
Moondancer. Great burgers. You’ll probably be starving from the
drive, right?”

He crunches something in my ear (a
Lay’s Salt & Vinegar potato chip?). “If it doesn’t rain, I’m
going to take my bike.”

As in a bicycle? “Oh.
Okay.”

My voice must’ve revealed my
ignorance, because he explains, “It gets sixty miles to the gallon.
Better for the environment and all that.”

This isn’t going to
work,
I think.
He
looks
like George,
sounds
like George,
AND
drives a motorcycle? Good Lord, what have I
gotten myself into?
“How responsible,” I
say, unsure whether I’m coming off like a pathetic suck-up or a
sarcastic wench.

“
That’s the
idea.”

“
Yeah, so, Saturday at
four? Or five?” I confirm.

“
I’ll call you.”

“
Deal.”

* * *

I’d rather not ask Haley for a favor,
but since she betrayed me to Mom and Dad, she owes me one. “What do
I have to do?” she asks as I brief her on the morning’s
mission.

“
Nothing. Just go with me
and back me up,” I say, tucking Clive into his cage after an
overdue outing. “Piece of cake.”

“
Why is
he . . . ? I mean, don’t you think it’s weird
that he wants to meet everyone?”

“
Of course not.” I dig
George’s hoodie out of a pile of laundry and knot it around my
waist, mostly for show. If his parents see me wearing it, they
might be more receptive to our proposal. “It’s perfectly normal.
Anyone who found out they had a dead twin would want
to . . .” I root around my makeup drawer. “Have you
seen my mascara?”

Haley slips off the bed, pretends to
be scanning the novels on my bookshelf. “Huh?”

What a snake.

“
My mascara,” I repeat. “I
know you’ve been ‘borrowing’ it.” I toss a couple of empty lip
gloss tubes in the garbage, then flip over a compact of blush to
find the edge of a Funyuns bag peeking out at me.

“
Geez, don’t go all crybaby
over it,” says Haley, my eyes misting over. “I’ll get you another
one.”

This unexpected burst of emotion has
happened before, but usually I can control it. I sniffle hard, pat
the corners of my eyes with my fingers. “Forget about the mascara,”
I say, shoving the makeup drawer closed. “Let’s just get out of
here.”

* * *

The Brookses’ yard is as pristine as
ever when Haley and I trudge up the front walk. “You knock,” I tell
her, pushing her gently toward the granite steps. “I’ll do the
talking.”

She whips her head around and glares
at me. “Fine. But after this, we’re even.”

“
Whatever you
say.”

“
Oh, and you promised to
help Opal’s mother with the rummage sale. You’ve still gotta do
that, you know.”

Our parents fronted the four hundred
dollars to bail Mrs. Madden out of jail. The only way she can repay
them is by selling off a church full of ceramic elephants and lava
lamps. “Dad doesn’t care about the money,” I state
flatly.

Haley raps on the door, her knuckles
no match for the hunk of hardwood. “Don’t start that again. It’s
embarrassing. Opal doesn’t want to—”

“
I know.” I give a shallow
sigh. “She’s too proud.”

Haley goes to knock again, but before
her fist makes contact, the door soundlessly opens on Mr. Brooks.
“Yes?” he says, his pupils dilating in the sunlight.

I step up, forehead to chin with the
man. “Um, hi, sir,” I say in a stumbly voice.

He smiles. “Hello, girls. What can I
do for you?”

I move my gaze into the foyer, a place
I haven’t visited since before George died. “Can we come
in?”

A tick of curiosity flashes across his
face. He pulls the door wide open. “Certainly.”

On cat feet (he wears fringed suede
slippers at four o’clock in the afternoon, which tamp his
footsteps) he leads us to a formal parlor, George’s least favorite
room of the house. “Please, sit down,” he says, motioning at a pair
of matching wingchairs with long cherry legs and stiff backs. He
takes a spot opposite us on what I believe is called a “smoking
chair,” a gothic-looking black leather thing with rolled arms and
ornately carved trim.

My toes barely reach the floor, and
Haley’s patent leather Mary Janes simply dangle over the oriental
carpet. I have no idea how to explain why we’re here, so I scan the
parlor for an icebreaker (maybe a photo of George I can innocently
comment on before delving into the information about Aleks). The
problem is, unlike the Rabinskis of Queens, the Brookses of
Milbridge have nary a trace of photographic evidence in sight. “How
are you doing?” I end up asking.

Unless it’s my imagination, Mr. Brooks
looks suspicious of us. “Coming along quite nicely,” he says. “And
you?”

“
We’re good,” blurts
Haley.

Mr. Brooks uncrosses his legs and
recrosses them to the other side, eyeing us ponderously.
“Excellent.”

I ask, “Is Mrs. Brooks home?” Maybe
I’ll have better luck summoning my nerve with her.

He frowns. “Sorry. I’m afraid
not.”

“
Well, the thing
is . . .” I start to say. “Um, you know how George
was adopted?” What am I, an idiot? Did I really just ask
that?

His eyes pinch together.
“Hmm?”

Trying to help, Haley says, “We found
out something.”

Mr. Brooks only stares. And who could
blame him?

“
Do you know anything about
George’s biological parents?” I ask, hoping to put the conversation
back on track. “Or where he came from?”

“
What’s this all about?” he
says, planting his feet and leaning forward, his hands clasped
between his knees. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a bulb of a tear
forming in the corner of his eye.

For a moment, I think about ditching
the plan and telling Aleks that George’s parents are missing in
action. But instead, I come out with, “George had a twin. His
name’s Aleks Smullen. He lives in New York City, and he wants to
meet you.” There. That about sums it up. The ball’s in his court
now.

I shoot a sidelong glance at Haley,
who stops chewing her lip to back me up. “That’s right.”

Mr. Brooks does a few robotic blinks.
“How does he know about us?”

That’s an odd question. I feel kind of
guilty admitting it, but . . . “We told him about
George and, well, you guys.”

A dense silence stretches into
uncomfortable territory. Mr. Brooks fidgets around nervously in his
chair. “This boy desires a meeting? With us? Lillian and
me?”

I nod and Haley says,
“Uh-huh.”

He stares us down. “When would this
meeting transpire?”

“
I know it’s short notice,”
I say, cringing as I deliver the news, “but he’s coming tomorrow.
So Sunday would be good, if you’re free.” I flash a hopeful
smile.

He abruptly stands, motioning for us
to do the same. “I’ll discuss it with Lillian,” he says, hustling
us for the exit, “and phone you with the results.”

“
Um,
okay . . .” I manage to mumble as he whips the door
open, flooding the foyer with late-summer heat.

Haley and I hit the porch just in time
to hear the deadbolt clunk into place, punctuated by a stiff, “Good
day.”

* * *

At six o’clock on Saturday, the dinner
rush is in full swing. Even though I should be topping off coffees
and clearing away dirty dishes, all I can do is gawk at The
Moondancer’s entrance like a neurotic puppy with separation
anxiety.

Haley gives my ankle a kick
as she whizzes by, a teetering tray of food balanced on her
shoulder. “C’mon. I’m
dying
here.”

I slip my phone out of my
apron and check it for messages. Like the last fifty times I’ve
looked, though, there aren’t any.
Where is
he?
I wonder about Aleks, a trickle of
panic creeping up my throat. Irrationally, I can’t help thinking
he’s crashed and died, like George.

Haley blows past me in the
other direction. “Thanks a lot,
douchebag.
”

I want to help my sister, save Mom and
Dad a night of frustrations, get the guests fed, watered and on
their way. But until Aleks Smullen’s perfect face lands in my field
of vision, I feel as if I’m trapped underwater, my limbs leaden
with anticipation and fear. “Be right there,” I promise Haley, but
she’s already gone. I shuffle toward the kitchen, groping inside my
apron for the crystal pendant I’ve been toting around all week as a
good luck charm, despite its dubious track record. When I find it,
I roll it back and forth between my fingers, begging the universe
for Aleks’s safe arrival.

“
Order up!” Dad barks when
he sees me coming. He slaps his palm down on a metal bell,
triggering a ringy-dingy sound that hangs in the air for a few
seconds.

I love Dad’s passion for
food and the way he acts like he’s starring in his own episode
of
Hell’s Kitchen
.
“Got it,” I say, transferring the plates from under the heat lamps
to a serving tray.

Dad drags his arm over his forehead,
clearing a line of perspiration. “Your friend show up
yet?”

I force an upbeat tone. “Nah. He
should get here soon, though.”

Dad gives a sideways nod. “Send him my
way when he does. I’ll show him how to whip up a Bronco
Burger.”

I can’t help laughing. “Sure
thing.”

The port-holed door swings wildly in
my wake as I glide back into the dining room, where my prayers are
finally answered.

At an orphan table by the coat rack,
my sister fawns over a mussy-haired Aleks Smullen, whose face is
aglow with a fresh sun bronze. I deliver the entrees I’m saddled
with, then bound in his direction, an all-too-dopey smile plastered
on my lips. “You’re here!” I chirp, the enthusiasm in my voice
nauseating.