Dead Ringer

20

I spent the next day and a half sorting out the car situation. Donovan wouldn't let me pay to replace his tires; Ciar, on the other hand, seemed only too happy to give me an estimate for the damage to my Golf.

I didn't care about the money. He didn't seem to understand that the real damage was psychological. Not that I expected him to care for my state of mind; he seemed to hate me enough as it stood. Donovan, however, refused to listen to my apologies until I told him I was okay. And even then, he waved them off.

I hated to give into the stereotype of dark-versus-light symbolism, but the Cosgrave brothers embodied it. They both held a darkness, but Donovan's was a product of a deep-seated desire to be whole again after Tilda's death. I understood that. I wanted the same thing, and maybe that was what drew me to him.

That, and he looked like Mark. He hadn't mentioned my slip of the tongue, but it sat between us like the ugly centerpiece at an otherwise wonderful dinner: Impossible to forget about, but speaking of it would only bring attention to its hideousness.

So we didn't.

When Clarissa knocked on my door the night of the party, her jaw dropped. I looked at her wide eyes, then down at Tilda's outfit—the one I'd borrowed from Donovan's house. I tugged at the skirt, but it refused to sit any lower on my hips.

"I can change," I began, then stood there awkwardly, like a child awaiting judgment.

"No," she finally said. "I approve."

Then she turned around and walked back out to her car.

I jogged after her like a puppy, Tilda's sandals slapping at my heels. I couldn't help the color in my cheeks as I slipped into the passenger's seat. It doesn't matter what other people think, I told myself. Only Donovan.

I felt less like a stranger in her clothes than I'd expected. Short skirts and low blouses had never been my thing; Tilda was the confident one. I hid in her shadow. But now that she wasn't here to cast one, stepping into her shoes felt less like an exhibition and more like homage.

Still, Clarissa's silence as I climbed out of her car in front of a two-story home in Charlestown dented my confidence. Dressing like Tilda was one thing, but wearing her clothes was another.

What if Donovan saw it that way, too?

I took a deep breath and listened to Clarissa's car pull away behind me as I walked up the driveway. It quickly became clear that my worries about fitting into someone's tiny apartment were baseless, because the sounds of the party came from the backyard.

I glanced left and right before stepping into the grass. I wished I had pockets to shove my hands into, or a hoodie to pull over my head; I felt like a trespasser in the gaps between the floodlights along the side of the house.

Ahead, the backlit silhouettes of a man and a woman appeared, linked at the hands. Her giggles floated to me on the breeze, leaving hints of their plans in the summer air. I rolled my eyes. Parties. Drinks. Hookups. This wasn't my thing, it was Tilda's.

Then again, we weren't all that different these days. The thought curled like comfort in my gut. I felt her stir, just enough that I knew she was still there if I needed her. With my arms at my sides, I tapped my fingertips against my bare thighs.

Okay, I needed her already.

No, I reminded myself quickly. That's how you ended up in a parking lot with no memory of how you got there.

I was still in the process of pushing her back when the couple stepped into one of the pools of light. I stopped in my tracks. Blue eyes, unnaturally pale—almost as pale as his skin—stared back at me from above sunken, bruise-colored half-circles.