Wednesday, I wake up a newly minted twenty-four-year-old. I pick up my cell phone, knowing this year will be a repeat of the past five years. I don’t know why I torture myself this way. Leaving home was my idea. Cutting all ties with my family was my idea. Still, I hit the button to open up the screen on the off chance they decided to break the rules I myself set up.

Nothing.

It’s what I expected. It’s what I deserve.

When I was growing up, I’d be woken up before sunrise to the sound of Mama and Daddy and all my siblings singing Happy Birthday as Mama carried in a heaping plate of blueberry pancakes and maple syrup. Even then, I had to share the spotlight. Not that I minded. Daddy would be carrying the plate of French toast for my twin sister, whom I miss more than anyone. Back then, Hope would hop over to join me on my little twin bed (twinsie beds for twinsies!). Afterward, everyone would leave us to eat by ourselves and we’d laugh and talk together, sharing that strange bond that twins have.

Shiloh—the next best thing I have to a sister here in New York—greets me with a venti caramel macchiato, which I rarely splurge on for myself, and a hardback copy of Anne Rice’s Interview With a Vampire, to help round out my bucket list of sinful delights. Since moving to New York, I’ve made it my mission to experience as many R-rated things as possible. For some reason, my tastes have gravitated toward the macabre. Scary movies and horror books are my favorites.

My family would have a collective heart attack at the book Shiloh has given me. I’ve already seen the film, so I know what to expect.

“You’re only allowed to read it in your bedroom at night,” she says with a wicked grin and a wink.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly brighter about the day.

“Oh, is it your birthday?” Caryn asks, with an idle yawn as she walks into our tiny kitchen toward the refrigerator and opens it. “Happy Birthday, I guess. What are your plans?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. A little too quickly, giving Shiloh a pointed look, which is completely unnecessary.

“None of your business,” Shiloh adds.

Caryn’s head spins around from the fridge to give Shiloh and me a suspicious glance. A tiny smirk curls one side of her mouth. “Are y’all headed to a hoedown or goin’ cow tippin’ or somethin’?” she asks in an exaggerated drawl.

“Caryn,” Shiloh warns with a hard look.

“Oh I’m just joking,” she laughs, reaching in to grab the carton of orange juice. “I think your accents are adorbs.”

“No Eric this morning to steal our milk?” Shiloh asks sweetly. “It was so quiet last night, I thought I had come home to the wrong apartment. I felt like I was sleeping in a convent, don’t you think so, Prynne?”

Caryn slams the refrigerator door shut and scowls at Shiloh. “Well, that’s no wonder. If it wasn’t for Eric this place probably would qualify as a convent.”

I’m surprised to see Shiloh’s face actually color. Hard. Usually, Caryn’s smart retorts roll right off her, quickly followed by some brilliant come back of her own. Having caught the scent of weakened prey, a smug smile appears on Caryn’s face.

It quickly disappears when Shiloh finds her bearings. “Well, thankfully we have you to round things out,” she looks up thoughtfully to the side. “Actually, the way you two go at it like rabbits every night, it’s probably enough to qualify this place as a bordello. Though lately, you’ve blessedly been giving Prynne and me a break. Why is that? You and Eric having yet another break?”

Caryn practically has steam coming out of her ears as she glares at Shiloh, her mouth working as she thinks of something to say. Instead, she storms off down the hallway muttering loudly enough for us to hear. “One day I’ll finally have enough money to get my own fucking place.”

“God willing,” Shiloh mutters under her breath.

“I heard that!” Caryn yells from the hallway.

We wait for the door to slam before we erupt into giggles. Certainly not the worst birthday morning I’ve had.

I arrive at work half an hour before Belmont’s Department Store opens at ten a.m. sharp.

My family still hasn’t called or texted. They won’t, and I don’t blame them.

This is what you wanted, Prynne.

My coworkers in the tiny customer service call center all greet me with a boisterous birthday greeting as soon as they’re all there. Even the recalcitrant Peter, who is usually too engrossed in whatever he does on his smartphone to bother with the rest of us, manages an anemic smile of congratulations. Other than him, it’s just Holly and Jermaine, who are as different as night and day. Holly is so new to the city from somewhere near Atlanta, and so timid, she almost makes me look like a born and bred New Yorker. Jermaine is…well, the electric blue nail polish and silvery eyeshadow says it all. He does some odd moonlighting job as “Jasmine” on nights and weekends, only working here for the benefits. They’re all terrific in their own way, making what is sometimes the worst job in the world, at least somewhat bearable.

“We have a chocolate cheesecake in the fridge for later. We know how much you like chocolate,” Holly says in that softly sweet Georgia accent of hers.

“Oh, you all!” I say, truly touched.

Our desks are butted up against one another in a square shape with me across from Peter and Holly and Jermaine across from each other.

“So what trouble are you gonna get up to, girl?” Jermaine asks, leaning across toward me with a conspiratorial smile on his lips, which are slathered with purple lip gloss.

I know if I tell them anything about my upcoming date, there will be no shortage of questions and teasing remarks, especially from Jermaine.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to laugh it off.

“Unh-unh,” he replies, closing his eyes so those absurdly long fake eye-lashes rest against his shimmery cheeks. He shakes his head in denial. “We are not gonna have you spend another birthday in front of that TV, watchin’ whatever freakshow, slaughterhouse, B-movie you find on Netflix.”

“I’m just going out with Shiloh,” I lie, just to lead them off the scent.

“Mmm-hmm,” Jermaine says, pursing his lips with disappointment. “One of these days, ya girl is gonna have to show you how to do it up right.”

I wonder what my family would think of Jermaine. I have to laugh at what that would be like. They’d probably be less shocked to see an alien land in their front yard.

By the time I get home, there’s still not text, no phone call, which I expected. That’s the way it’s been since I left. I know for a fact that part of me tortures myself as a form of punishment. If I want back into the family, I’m the one who has to make the move. So why don’t I?

I’ve grabbed some Tom Ka Gai from a Thai place that Shiloh introduced me to as part of my “awakening” when I first moved in. Thai food. There’s another thing my family back home—whose claim to fame is tater tot casserole—would at the very least look at askance.

Shiloh is, not surprisingly, working late again. No wonder she wants a new job. Caryn is out as well. I have the apartment to myself. It should be a relief. Even as large as the space is, at least by New York standards, we have a habit of walking all over each other when we’re not in our respective bedrooms. Tonight, it just makes me sad and nostalgic for home.

But this is what I came to this city for. Personal space. Freedom. Blessed isolation.

Being my own person.

I settle on the couch with my Thai soup and rice and search out another horror film on the Netflix account I “share” with Shiloh. I’ve decided on The Babysitter, which seems to have the right mix of corniness, suspense, and lewdness to hit all the right marks for my bucket list. My family would be appalled.

I’m well into the movie, which is actually more hilarious than scary, when the phone rings. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest, half from terror and half from joy. I quickly set aside the half-eaten Thai soup, pause the film mid-cult-ritual, and scramble for it, feeling the elation nearly bring me to tears.

They’ve actually decided to call!

My hopes are dashed when I see the caller ID. Danielle Fairchild. I stare at it, willing it to change, before feeling ashamed. Danielle was my roommate back at Bluett University. She’s one of the very few people in the world who know about my past, which even Shiloh doesn’t know.

“Happy Birthday!” she yells, as soon as I answer.

I smile as I stare blankly at the TV before me. “Thanks, Danielle,” I say, trying to sound as chipper as possible.

It doesn’t fool her. She knows exactly who I was hoping would be on the other end of the line. “Still no contact?” she asks sympathetically.

“Still no contact,” I echo.

“Well, I’m sure they’re thinking of you.”

“I know,” I say, even though we both know it’s my own damn fault that I won’t hear from them. She’s tactful enough not to point that out to me.

“Parents can be complicated. Families can be complicated. Just look at mine. My parents and my sister still don’t talk to each other and she’s almost forty now.”

I frown at the TV, imagining my sisters and brothers and Mama and Daddy all growing up and growing old without me. Nephews and nieces I have yet to meet—maybe never will meet at all.

“Oh gosh!” Danielle says, no doubt suddenly realizing how what she said came out. “Not that this will still be going on when you’re forty.”

“It’s okay. One day we’ll get over this. The TV cameras will be gone, Mama and Daddy will forgive me and then things will return to normal.”

“Normal? Do either of us know what that even means?” she says with a laugh.

That gets a giggle out of me. If anyone knows what a crazy upbringing is like, it’s the daughter of America’s Favorite Pastor (read: televangelist). She’s been in the spotlight since before she was born.

“Speaking of which,” I say, feeling my pep come back as I remember her own bit of news. “Isn’t Dr. Sexpert supposed to be joining you this summer? Does your Dad know?”

“No, thank goodness,” she exhales with relief. “And, for your information, Nathanial Stone not ‘joining’ me this summer, he’s just doing his research at the university library.”

“Where you’ll just happen to be working?” I reply with amused skepticism. She’s getting her masters in library science at a college in Missouri, coincidentally enough, and is working in the library there during the summer.

“Oh, I’m not stupid enough to think it’s a coincidence. He and my Dad have been at it with one another since forever.”

“And you’ve never even met him?” I ask curiously.

“Well, it’s not like he was invited to Thanksgiving dinner,” she says with a laugh.

I hum in agreement. “So are you nervous? Excited? Worried?”

“I’m going to be perfectly professional,” she says loftily. Perhaps a little too loftily. I wonder if my old roommate has a bit of a rebellious streak in her as well.

“Good luck. I hear he has a preference for coeds like you,” I tease.

“I’ll survive,” she laughs. “Besides, I’m a grad student now, not a silly coed. Speaking of boys, any news to report on your end?” she says in a sugary sweet teasing voice.

I think about Rhys, about whom I’m sure the good Dr. (PhD, not M.D.) Nathaniel Stone would have something to say, specifically regarding his particular preference for going nude with the curtains open.

“Nope,” I lie. As much as I love Danielle, she hasn’t quite left the flock, so to speak. I can tell that her father’s influence still has a hold on her, and the last thing I want is for her to start judging me. “I might as well be back at Bluett, for all the dating I’ve done here.”

“Aren’t we pathetic?” she sighs, making me wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to tell her about Rhys. Then I think about seeing his cock swinging so freely in his hotel room as he opened the door to me. Perhaps I’ll save it for another time. Who knows, he may finally decide he doesn’t want to be with me after our date tomorrow. Especially, when he finds out—

“Earth to Prynne,” I hear Danielle say.

I shake my head, putting Rhys firmly at the back of my thoughts. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was asking if you were going to do anything other than stay home which apparently seems to be the agenda for tonight. Anything tomorrow or this weekend?”

“I went to Coney Island this past weekend,” I say, using the same lie I gave my roommates. “That was enough.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding surprisingly disappointed. “Well, that sounds like fun. I’d love to go one day.”

“You should schedule a visit. We could do all sorts of fun things.” My mind instantly snaps back to this weekend at the Sexton Hotel. Goodness, if she ever found out….

“Anyway, I need to get back to work. I have this group project in Collection Development class.”

“Okay, thanks for calling, Danielle.”

“Of course! And again, Happy Birthday!”

We hang up and I take a moment to appreciate her reaching out. I may not have communication with my family, but I’ve managed to at least collect a few loyal friends since leaving home.

I’m jarred out of those pleasant thoughts by the sound of Caryn and Eric stumbling in through the front door laughing their heads off. Apparently they are back “on” in their on-again-off-again relationship.

“Oh, hey Nebraska,” Eric says with a grin, his eyes doing their usual perusal of my body. He likes to call me by various mid-western states instead of by my name. The first time, I was upset. Now, it’s just too ridiculous and overplayed for me to be annoyed. “I hear you had a birthday.”

Caryn scowls at him then turns to me. “No birthday sex tonight?”

I glare at the both of them, ignoring the taunt.

“You’re welcome to join us. I’ve always wanted to try two girls at—” Eric offers, then yelps in pain as Caryn punches him in the arm.

“What the fuck, Eric!”

“I was just kidding. It wasn’t like she was going to say yes. You’re the one who said she was a—”

“Never mind!” she yells, darting a guilty look my way before dragging him off.

In their wake, I feel my face burn with embarrassment, knowing exactly how Eric was going to finish that sentence. Is it that obvious that I’m still a virgin? Maybe Caryn just assumes all us yokels from the Midwest save it until marriage. Still, the thought that I’ve been the topic of pillow talk between the two of them—maybe laughing about it after one of their riotous rounds of off-the-wall-sex—is mortifying.

I look over at my Tom Ka Gai, which is now cold. Then my eyes drag up to the TV screen where the movie’s heroine is French kissing a cheerleader. A lesbian make-out session. What better way to end the night than with another check mark in a box labeled “Things That Would Scandalize the Flanders Flock?”

“Happy Birthday, Faith Flanders,” I say to myself, using my given name as I always do when this day comes to an end.

I turn off the TV and stick the cold soup in the fridge. After changing into my pajamas, I take Shiloh’s advice and curl up under the covers with the book she gave me, ignoring Caryn and Eric next door. I’m ten pages in when the phone on my nightstand vibrates. I blink at it in surprise before happily picking it up.

It’s a text message. No words, just emojis:

A birthday cake.

Two identical female heads with dark hair and dark eyes.

One heart.

It’s my sister, Hope. I feel the tears come to my eyes and smile down at the phone. Never mind that this is potentially a risk to me, I’m just thrilled to see her actually reach out. I was always the daring one, so this little act of rebellion on her part is especially heartwarming. She probably knows that, out of all my family, she’s the one I would most want to hear from. I wonder what brought it on.

When I first left home it was under a new name and new appearance. The first college I went to wasn’t Bluett University, but Tucker College, another very Christian, very conservative school. Although I had cut most ties with my family then, there were still phones and email. Which one man in particular managed to hack in order to stalk me. Even though he just turned out to be a run-of-the-mill fan, the first time he called me, it was terrifying, for so many reasons. I knew I hadn’t really escaped. If he could find me that way, any number of people—worse, those who were righteously pissed off that I had left home, and wanted my head on a platter—could as well.

After that, it was decided that if I really wanted to be Prynne Dawson, I had to cut even those electronic ties, so no one could find out who I was. Nineteen-year-old me was fine with that, ready to break loose and take on the world outside of that small town in Missouri. Twenty-four year old me is now just too settled into it to change things.

But it isn’t until this moment right now that I realize just how much I miss my sister. More than anyone.

“Happy Birthday, Hope,” I say into the phone, daring to send a birthday cake and heart back to her.

I’m about to put the phone away when I see the dots bubbling up indicating that I have yet another incoming message. Another emoji.

A baby bottle.

My twin sister is pregnant.