I hit the stick in my right hand, then the left, then again and again. I hit the sticks until I’ve gone through three short verses of three different songs and have morphed into something different. Something totally different and new, something fresh, something that brings a smile to my lips. It gets quicker, making me hit the drums harder, then it slows, the beats gentle, easy, soothing, until it picks up again, and I can’t keep up, so I close my eyes, letting the music flow through me, breathing it in then letting it exhale through the drumsticks, then it’s slow again, simple, then it’s faster, and faster, and faster until it’s almost brutal, pushing the boundaries of anything I’ve ever played, until it’s country mixed with pure rock, twang mixed with shout, softness mixed with brashness, and—

“Whoa,” Jessie breathes, stopping at the door.

I stop and put the sticks down, still feeling the vibration of the music flooding through me. “What?”

She hesitates. “Nothing,” she says softly. “Your mom wanted me to tell you that lunch is ready.”

“Great. Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay.” Jessie moves toward the door, then stops with her hand on the doorknob. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” I cut my eyes to her, inexplicable annoyance threading through me.

“That.” She motions toward the drum set. “The music. So easily. I’ve been watching you for ages, listening for even longer. You just sat there and didn’t even seem to think.”

“You were watching me?”

Her hair flicks around her face with her sharp nod. “Like I said . . . I listened. . . . And I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know if you were reading notes, then realized that was stupid, because how can you do that when you need to see what you’re doing? And you’re not a guitar player or a piano player, so . . .”

I drop my eyes from her face to the stick in my hand and twirl it.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says casually, but I hear the dejected tone as easily as I can hear every note of a guitar. “It was just . . . something . . . to hear you play alone. You know, without your brothers’ instruments or the tuning stuff. So, thanks? I guess.”

“You wanna know?”

She stops, halfway through the door. “Know?”

“How I do it? This?” I wave the stick across the drums.

She nods, opening her mouth.

“Jessie?” Kye pokes his head through the door. “Mom packed our lunch. You ready?”

“I . . .” She looks between us. “Yeah. I’m ready. Do you mind?” she asks me.

I look at her flatly, and fuck, that anger is back, hitting my stomach hard, twisting and coiling and turning. “Why would I?” I reply, voice tight. “I ain’t your keeper, sunshine.”

“Let’s go.” Kye shoots me a hard look before tapping her arm and disappearing.

Jessie hovers for a second that seems to last ten, staring at me, her hair falling in front of her eye. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and it whitens as her teeth drag across it, but when I don’t say a word, she steps through the door and to the side, leaving it to close after her.

I stare at the door. Closed. The slam final. The click of it even more final than the loud slam that echoes, because the click ricochets. Over and over and over, it’s deafening. Ironic, that such a quiet sound can be so loud in the right situation.

Kye. And Jessie.

My brother. My fucking twin. Out with the girl who’s supposed to be mine.

Supposed to be. Fuck me—this shouldn’t bother me this way. I shouldn’t be feeling so fucking . . . angry. That’s it. No frills or fancy stitching. That’s all I am and everything I am. Angry. So, so fucking angry.

What the hell are they playing at? No—screw that. She doesn’t owe me a thing. But Kye? Out with her? When he knows what this is?

I can only imagine the headlines tomorrow: DO TWINS REALLY SHARE EVERYTHING? Or: IS KYE STEALING HIS BROTHER’S GIRL?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I slam the sticks down and get up. The stool falls, clattering to the floor behind me. I kick it away and it slams into the chair Kye always sits in, and I take a childish, sick satisfaction in the way it smacks into the wall and hits the floor. I yank the door open and leave it to slam after me, and God, this feeling. It’s so unknown.

This feeling is so unwelcome. This anger can go and fuck itself, quite literally. I have no time or place or desire for it. It’s unnecessary. Totally out of damn place. And shit, I’m so fucking done with this.

I’m so fucking done with pretending if it’s just gonna lead to the total bullshit that could be my twin screwing the girl the whole world thinks I’m in love with.

“Aidan?”

I stop at the sound of Mom’s voice. I run my fingers through my hair, and in the middle of the kitchen I stare at her.

“Are you okay, son?”

I swallow. Hard. And without another word, turn back to the garage I just stormed out of, right the stool I just kicked over, sit down, and grab my sticks, ready to pound the shit out of the drums in front of me.

I delete the unopened message from Jessie and catch the basketball just before it hits me in the face. “Whoa,” I say to Mila. “You’re gettin’ real good at this.”

“My frow,” she demands, holding her arms out.

I place the ball, bigger than her head, in her hands, and take several steps back.

“Hiiiiiiiyah!” she yells, launching the ball at the side of the house. It bounces off, hitting the ground once before landing in my arms. I catch it and throw it against the floor before it hits the wall and comes back to me. “Mine!” she cries again. “Mine!”

Giving her a “bounce ball” might not have been my best idea this year.

She throws it over her head and it hits the wall so hard that I almost don’t catch it. Shit—who knew two-year-olds were so strong?

“Is Jessie here for dinner?” Mom asks.

“You’re asking the wrong twin,” I reply, seeing Kye move behind her in the kitchen. “He’ll know. He spent all afternoon with her.”

He freezes, and even Mom stops for a second. “Well, okay. Kye, is Jessie here for dinner?”

“No,” he replies, moving past her and stepping onto the porch. “What’s your problem?”

“If I had one, I’d have punched you already.” I throw the ball at the house.

“Watch my windows!” Mom calls as the ball comes dangerously close to them.

“Are you for real?” Kye puts his glass down on the table. “You’ve been nothing but a miserable asshole ever since you and Jessie got here this morning.”

“Oh, and I wonder why!”

“Dollar!” Mila shrieks, running between us. “Ass! Bad! Dollar!”

“So do the rest of us!” he yells, his eyes, the same color as mine and level with them, narrowing. “You come here, all laughing and happy and shit, then the next thing we know, you’re the most miserable fuckin’ piece of shit I’ve ever met!”

“Hey!” Conner yells, storming past Kye and swooping Mila up. “I don’t care if y’all are on your periods. Y’all watch your damn mouths around my daughter, especially when you’re fightin’ like a couple of girls!”

For one second, the youngest of us is the oldest, love giving him more strength than we can hope for.

“Don’t look at me,” I tell him, holding my hands up and dropping the ball. “He’s the one that can’t control himself.”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Kye shouts, jumping down the steps and coming toward me.

“One more step, bro, and I swear to God I’m gonna put my fist through your nose.”

He takes a step. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay!” Sofie shoves Kye out of the way and stops, turning her back to me. She puts her hand on her hips and looks at him. “Enough! Both of you.” She looks at me. “My baby is in there cryin’ because y’all are actin’ like a couple of thirteen-year-old boys fightin’ over a Playboy. And that is not all right!”

“Sorry, Sof,” I mutter. Kye does the same. At the same time.

“Damn right you are,” she replies, taking steps to the side and cutting her bright eyes to both of us. “Now I don’t give a shit what kind of crap y’all are wrapped up in, but I know it anyway, and I know that you”—she points at Kye—“and you”—she moves her finger to me—“are wrong.”