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I thought bringing Griff to live with me would lessen my worry about him, but it has the opposite effect. It’s as if his proximity, his presence in my town, in my apartment, makes it impossible to stop thinking about him.

And okay, I know it isn’t just worry. I know it. My thoughts about Griff are complicated. Complex. Many-layered. What I feel for him... It’s too much, too big to put into words.

My sister Cosima—twin sister, in fact—thinks I’m crazy to stick by him.

She’s probably right. I fell in love with him when I was still in high school. Afterward he went into the military and spent a year in Iraq. I didn’t know it at the time, had no clue where he’d vanished to.

Before he left, he used to come and do our garden from time to time, mow the lawn, trim the hedges, gather the leaves. I’d watch him from my bedroom window. He’d always been a quiet, serious guy, and so hot, God. He’d work in a black tank top and worn jeans, and I’d ogle his biceps, his broad back, his tight ass, the dark hair lightly curling at the back of his neck.

Turns out he’s just four years older than me, but back then, they felt like light years, like he’d arrived from another planet, alien and perfect.

One day he didn’t come back. Since Dad admitted he had no idea why Griff stopped coming over, I went around to his house to ask, and found out he’d joined the military.

I pined after him, I swear, like one of those civil war era heroines in their big dress and hat, heartbroken.

But even if the dress and hat were imaginary, the heartbreak was real. I kind of knew it then already that I loved him. From afar, quietly, with all the strength of my young feelings. Such a heroine.

Such a fool.

Then one day I saw him again. He’d come back, slightly older, leaner. He was limping, had tattoos, and was quieter than ever, a shadow with a world of pain in his eyes.

That was when I realized it wasn’t play pretend. Those feelings were real. I had to make him see me, want me, but much like before, he seemed to see right through me.

So I tried. Talked to him. Spent time with him. From what I’d gathered, he rented a room and was recovering from a leg injury and depression. So I brought him books, read him poetry, talked to him about myself, my sister, my family, my dreams.

He started to open up, in degrees, those dark eyes brightening sometimes. He painted, talked about a buddy working on the west coast he’d lost track of. He never mentioned his folks, or the army, but I thought we were friends, of sorts.

Well, he was my friend. Sure, I wanted more, but he didn’t seem ready. Or interested. I couldn’t tell which it was. He was... wonderful, in his quiet way. Though he was hard to read, and sometimes hard to be around, we started spending time together.

He copied a poem for me once, and I kept it, like a dirty secret. He gave me a paper flower once, and I held on to it like a talisman. He gave me a drawing he made, and I framed it and look at it every day.

Until he hurt me so bad I left him, and tried to hurt him back. It seems it worked so well he hates my guts.

And yet here I am, taking care of him through his sickness. I came back to him the moment I heard about it. It was the push I needed to get over my stupid pride and knock on his door.

He opened it.

But I’m not sure he wants me with him.

Tough. I’m staying. I’m not leaving until I’m certain he’s well enough on his own, and then I’ll be out of his hair for good.

***

“Hey, brat!” Cosima drags me into the apartment and hugs the hell out of me. “So glad you made it.”

“Glad I made it, too.”

It’s a beautiful place. I’ve been here only once before, when I came to have a coffee with Cosima and pretend everything’s fine in my life, something I’ve become adept at lately. I wouldn’t want Cos to worry about me anymore, not when she’s finally found her way and is happily living her life.

This is actually Merc’s apartment, one he shares with the enigmatic JC, a guy as quiet and dark-haired as Griffin, but apparently very different from him. For one, JC is loaded where Griff is poor, and for another... well nobody is like Griff.

The apartment belongs to JC’s family. Old money. Old but still shiny, it seems. Maybe money matures like good wine?

And now I imagine JC’s family keeping their dollars in barrels in deep vaults underground.

“Hi.” I smile at Merc, my sister’s boyfriend, and he smiles right back. “Thanks for inviting me over. I heard you’re a great cook.”

“People do talk, don’t they?” He grins at my sister, his cheekbones coloring.

“People? What people?” She sticks her tongue out at him.

“Don’t believe what she tells you,” he says and turns that grin on me.

That grin. So wide and full of joy. With his white-blond hair, that easy demeanor, that openness, he’s all gold and light. The opposite of Griffin.

Griff. I think of him sitting in my apartment, in the easy chair by the window, staring out. A blanket over his legs, his hair just a dark shadow over his skull, his eyes sunken, inked arms resting in his lap.

All I want is to be by his side.

But he’s probably happier without me fussing over him, I admit sadly, and make myself sit down at the kitchen table. Merc has cooked an early dinner for us, and I accepted the invitation after months of saying no.

These past months have been hell. I don’t want to think about them, or the future—the day when Griff tells me he’s well and good to go.

“So what’s for dinner?” I bang my fist lightly on the massive oak table dominating the kitchen. The counters are gray marble, the ceilings high, the light fixtures look like a million dollars. “Chef! The customers are hungry.”

“I swear,” he says, “you sound just like your sister right now.”

Cosie mock-punches him in the arm and he catches her hand, lacing their fingers together. “She does not.”

“A good thing I can tell you apart easily.” He winks, lifts her hand to his lips.

“Oh really?” she mutters.

There’s a story behind this exchange.

Once upon a time, Merc fell in love with my sister, and mistook me for her. We do look quite alike, and back then Cos was attending classes for me, so that I could stay by Griffin’s side.

Cue a slew of various misunderstandings that had my sister crying her eyes out, believing Merc wanted me and not her, while I couldn’t understand why this blond guy kept following me and insisting we knew each other.

Talk about a mix-up.

“Take a seat, Sophie,” Merc says. “You’ve never tried lasagna like this. It’s Mom’s recipe, with a mercurial twist. Merc. Mercurial. Get it?”

I roll my eyes, my mouth twitching into a smile.

“A twist. Do you mean chili?” Cosie’s eyes narrow with suspicion, even though she looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “How much chili did you put in there? Merc...”

He leads her to the chair beside me, pushes her down into it and winks. “You’ll love it.”

“This boy.” She shakes her head, her eyes bright, her grin splitting her face. “He’s a good cook, though,” she reassures me, turning to me. “Fear not.”

“Sure, but you try first, just in case.”

She laughs.

It’s great to see her so happy. I know how unsure she was at first about Merc loving her back, but the way he looks at her... God, it makes my breath catch. He’s so in love with her, and it’s as if she glows under his gaze, blossoming like a flower in the sun.

A shot of bitterness dissolves in my mouth, and I swallow hard. If only Griff looked at me that way...

Merc carries the steaming pan to the table in his oven-mittened hands, and places it on a heat mat. “You’ll be licking your fingers and your plate, I promise.”

“Confident.” I inhale the aroma of red and white sauce. “I like that.”

“What’s for dinner?” A dark head pops inside the kitchen door, followed by a tall, muscular body.

“Lasagna!” Cos announces, jumping in her seat. “Come, sit.”

“You’re late, JC. Sophie, this is my roommate,” Merc says, waving a mitten at him, “and he can’t cook to save his life.”

“Thankfully,” he says, entering, “my life doesn’t depend on cooking, so I’m safe from my terrible fate. You must be Cosima’s twin sister.”

“What gave me away?” I get up, we shake hands, then he sits down beside me.

“Is this a trick question?”

Cos snickers.

I don’t know why. We may be identical twins, and Merc may have been confused for a while there, but we’re so different.

For one, we dress differently. I like dresses and heels and have a fringe. Cos prefers pants and funny T-shirts and boots, and favors ponytails.

For another, I’m happy working in an office and daydreaming about stories I read, poems I love, and one brooding, sexy man (not) waiting for me at home. Cos grabs life by the hair, is dreaming about exploring ruins in jungles and deserts, and is in love with the brightest star of a man, Mercury Watson.

She thinks she’s my dark side, my shadow self. The truth is, I’m the weak link, the hollow self. I depended on her for so long to keep me upright that I barely know how to do it on my own. And if I’ve stuck by Griffin’s side... That may be the only brave, stubborn thing I’ve ever done.

Brave, or just really stupid.

We both know which it is.

“Plate,” Merc says, and automatically I lift my plate for a piece of steaming lasagna. “Next.”

JC obediently lifts his plate and receives his own piece of culinary heaven, and we all dig in making appreciative noises.

Merc’s cheeks are all flushed now, the color deepening. Despite his confident comments and posturing, it’s easy to see he’s pleased and self-conscious.

I like that about him. He’s not a dick. And he’s really cute with that fine face and hair falling in those blue eyes. Killer body, too. My sis has good taste in men—at least these days. The guys she used to date before Merc were real pieces of work.

But Griff is more handsome.

Griff, Griff, Griff. Why can’t I stop thinking of him? How imperfect he is. How antisocial and stubbornly silent, scarred inside and out.

How strong he is, a fighter. How scared I am he might give up and not tell me about it, and then how am I going to pull him back from the brink?

This is my greatest fear. That he’ll slip quietly into the dark—more than him not loving me, not trusting me ever again. I made... a terrible mistake. My sister may have dated assholes, but I did something much worse.

“Wine?” Cos asks, and I raise my glass without thinking. Wine is good. Not thinking is good. My brain is too busy turning the past over and over, digging into the wound and not letting I heal.

I’m on autopilot these days. Somewhere along the way I lost the flying manual, lost the control wheel, and it’s a matter of time before this plane that’s been carrying me through life crashes.

“How’s Griffin?” she asks me.

“Better. He can sit to paint and draw now. He moves about the apartment. The incision is healthy.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“They’re optimistic.”

See? My answers make sense, despite the fact I hardly pay any attention to the questions. I can do this in my sleep—act normal, reply to questions that feel like bullets tearing through my heart—which is how I feel most of the time:

Like I’m sleepwalking through life, walking in the dark, finding my way by feel.

JC is asking Cos about her classes and Merc is telling us a story about how his youngest nephew laughs every time Merc says “Saskatchewan”, and that he therefore decided that the word would be their new secret password.

Secret password?

I blink at the three of them, as they laugh over their plates of spicy lasagna and glasses of ruby wine, and feel strangely distant. Cut off, and out of place.

What am I doing here, in this perfect slice of happy life? I don’t belong. I don’t feel it. It stings.

What I want is to go home, to Griff. Even if he doesn’t want me there, I want to check on him, make sure he’s okay, that he’s resting and whether his fever is up—a side effect of the surgery that should pass. What if he needs something and there’s no one around to fetch it for him?

The thought is killing me.

So I swallow my wine and reach for the bottle to pour myself some more. Surely getting drunk to stop myself from leaving the one time I came to visit my sister, to make her happy, is a good reason?

To blank out my mind even for a while, just enough to stop the maudlin, maddening thoughts, the what-ifs and what-nows, so I can stay sane another day.

While I burn with love for a man who doesn’t love me back.

***

When I unlock my apartment door much later, it’s utter quiet. Warmth blasts at me as I step inside, closing the door softly behind me. The cab that brought me back smelled of turpentine, which made me think of painting and Griff’s books and drawings and then...

Then all I could think of was entering my apartment and kneeling in front of him, asking him to forgive me, to explain why he hurt me so much first, why... why all this pain and love and why I can’t get over him.

Ask him to kiss me.

Or kiss him first.

But he’s asleep in the easy chair, head tipped to the side, dark hair curling boyishly against his temples. His long body is lax, one arm curled around his middle, over the incision. The dark lines of ink are visible where they wrap around his bony wrist: Leaves and flowers, entangled in a thorny briar.

I asked him once what the ink means to him, why he got it done. He never replied. He likes gardens, I guess. Plants, trees. Nature.

And now he’s caught in this maze of walls and concrete, unable to leave, too tired to even walk about.

I should let him rest, and yet I kneel by his side, helpless. The need to touch his skin is an ache inside me. The need to put my arms around him, tell him how much I’ve missed him, although I’ve been around him for almost a year now.

Did he care for me once? Maybe I’ll never know. If he came close to caring, and I threw it all away.

Funny how he once mentioned how pretty Merc’s sister was, and I was hurt. It was one of the little hurts that came together and made me want to hurt him back.

If I’d realized he wasn’t interested in me... I guess I didn’t want to see it. I thought he’d done it to hurt me, but it turns out that hadn’t been about me at all.

And now we’ve drifted apart, even if we’re living under the same roof, breathing the same air. We’re apart even if my heart beats in time to his.