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“Yeah—” Kelsey started.

He put up a hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “No. It’s freaky. There are twins, and there are twins.”

Kelsey nodded. “We were twins,” she said, because that was all she could think to say.

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m being dramatic. I’ve had a long day. Espresso?”

“Lay it on me,” Kelsey said, rubbing her numb hands together.

While he pressed the grounds, his eyes kept flickering in her direction, searching for something. He set a tiny cup on the counter with a flourish.

Kelsey shuffled in her purse for her wallet. She put out a five to pay for the drink, but he pushed it away. She looked up at him, his large eyes blinking.

“Honey, please,” he said. “Your money’s no good here.”

“Thank you,” she said, and inside, she felt a trace of the first real laugh she’d had all night. She giggled and took a sip of her espresso. “You are dramatic.”

“So?” He leaned on the counter, watching her. “What’s the point of experiencing life if no one else takes notice?”

“Like, ‘if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, did it really fall’ type of thing?”

“Exactly. I’m Ian, by the way.”

“Kelsey. So you knew Mitch?”

“Yes. She came in here to draw late at night. Sometimes we went to parties together.”

Kelsey searched her memory, but she couldn’t remember him among Michelle’s boyfriends. “I wonder why she never brought you home to meet us.”

“Not together together.” He smiled wryly. “Michelle’s not really my type.”

It appeared girls in general were not his type. Kelsey clicked her tongue and pointed a finger gun at him. “Got it.”

“I should have just told you I was a dancer, like you.”

“How did you know I was a dancer?”

He furrowed his brow. “Michelle talked about you all the time. You think I would just hug a stranger because she looks like my friend?”

Kelsey felt a smile come on. “No, but you know who would do that?”

They said it together: “Michelle.”

After they laughed, they sat in silence, remembering. Finally, he spoke. “She said that your parents pretended to approve of you both, but secretly they were afraid you would grow up to be starving artists.”

Kelsey felt her mouth drop open. “Michelle said that? That’s funny, because I’m no artist. Michelle was the artist.”

Ian made a psh sound and pretended to be offended. “You’re saying dancers aren’t artists?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Just that I don’t do any modern dance. Nothing that expresses, like, feelings.” He was still staring at her with those all-knowing eyes. She threw up her hands. “I’m not a tortured genius! I want to be a Rock Chalk Dancer with the hair and the uniform and the crowd. I just like to shake my ass.”

Ian threw his head back, laughing. “Hey, me, too. Me, too. But don’t sell yourself short. You don’t have to be tortured to be an artist. I’m happy. Michelle was happy.”

Kelsey paused, thinking. “I think she wanted to be a genius, though. She wanted to be original. I don’t care about any of that. I like being a part of something bigger than myself, something that everyone can understand.” She pointed to the Jayhawks logo on her jersey. “Like this.”

In response, all Ian did was point to the soup can on his T-shirt.

Kelsey recognized it from the poster in Michelle’s room. “Warhol, right? Yeah, he was her favorite.”

He turned away from her to the sink, back to his task. “You want to know why Michelle called you an artist? Look up Andy Warhol.”

Kelsey didn’t know Michelle even talked about her when she wasn’t around. She didn’t know Michelle was worried their parents disapproved. She hadn’t even had a conversation with one of Michelle’s friends lasting more than “I’m the other twin,” or, “Michelle’s upstairs.”

Kelsey put her hands around the tiny cup, soaking in the warmth. “God, there was so much I didn’t know about her.”

Ian shrugged. “Maybe it never occurred to you to ask because you didn’t have to.”

“Yeah. When someone lives next to you, eats next to you, looks just like you, you think you know them.”

But you don’t. You didn’t know her, not really, Kelsey told herself. This made her unexpectedly sad, sadder than the dull ache of absence. And desperate to know more.

She finished her drink and zipped up her coat.

“See you around, Kelsey.” Ian reached across for another hug, whispering into her ear, “And please don’t ever wear a basketball jersey as a dress again.”

MITCH TO PETER / USING BIG WORDS THAT MITCH WOULD USE (SECOND ATTEMPT)

1/7

Dearest Peter,

I must apologize for the delay in returning your letter. I was otherwise occupied with my academics, which as you know are of the uttermost importance. Let me paint a picture for you. I enter my home around three thirty and sit down to my studies at a rolltop desk, which I found at a nearby estate sale on Tennessee Street. My sister tells me the desk is not in fact antique but actually finds its origin at Target.

???

—find a book she would read. Jane Eyre?

—this is crazy

—copy parts of her journal

CHAPTER TWELVE

The next time Peter called, Kelsey would be ready. She had received a Skype message from him earlier that week, telling her that he’d call in two days, sometime that evening.

She daydreamed through classes, planning what to say.

She arrived home from dance practice to a house full of random mourners, trying to lose Gillian and Ingrid at her front door. They stood in the entryway with their backpacks, looking over Kelsey’s shoulder.

“You don’t want to see this,” she told them, gesturing to the circle.

“Is this the group you were telling us about?” Gillian asked. Her mouth turned down, and she shrugged. “I guess they gotta do what they gotta do.”

“It’s nice they have snacks, too,” Ingrid offered.

This month’s mantra, as they heard thrumming from the living room, was WE MUST EMBRACE PAIN AND USE IT AS FUEL FOR OUR JOURNEY. This month’s group leader was a woman named Patti who had lost her son to cancer. This month’s refreshments were ginger ale and banana bread.

The way Patti passed out cups of sodas to the support group reminded Kelsey of a Catholic mass she once saw. All the talk of the soul and the spirit, each person bowing their head in thanks as they received their bread, including her parents.

Finally, as the group started their personal testimonies, her friends left.

She headed upstairs and moved Michelle’s laptop to her room.

Now Kelsey was doing a handstand against her bedroom door. She could see herself in the reflection of the deck doors, belly exposed under black leggings, hair touching the floor. She hadn’t straightened her hair that day, or put on mascara. Her door was painted a light pink, her walls turquoise, the lamps on either side of her bed funneling light into orange-tinted triangles. It was supposed to be tropical, her room, but from that angle, it looked like a retro vision of a spacecraft.

When the beeping rang out from Michelle’s computer, Kelsey went upright, letting the blood rush from her face back down to her body. Peter. Kelsey moved with the laptop to a less conspicuous location, ran her fingers through her wavy hair, and pressed ANSWER. Her hands were shaking.