Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“If I were to guess,” she says, “you’re probably at your computer with a spreadsheet with a pros and cons list as to what you should do tonight.” I roll my eyes.
“Wrong,” I say, happy she is actually wrong for once. Turning the camera, I give her a view of the explosion of clothes everywhere. I hear her whistle and then turn her back to me. “Besides, I already did that this morning when I got up,” I confirm, making her laugh. “I’m lying in the middle of my bed, on top of every single piece of clothing I own.” I look around the room at the disaster. “I’m not kidding. I took everything out. Jeans, yoga pants, joggers, skirts, shorts, dresses.” I pick up a gray shirt with Warrior Not Worrier in the middle of it and toss it aside to the for-sure-no pile.
“What did you decide on?” I hear her tapping something, and I know it’s either her index finger or a pen as her face comes closer to the phone.
“Either my black jeans.” I pick up the jeans in question to show her. “And a black silk tank top.” I pick up the black silky tank top with a bit of lace at the top.
“Or?” The tapping stops, and she sits up, looking around, and I can see she is sitting outside somewhere.
“Champagne shorts with the black silk tank top.” I look around, and she blows out.
“You know why this is so hard.” I hear a bird squeaking in the background. “Because you dress like a nun.” She points at the phone.
I chuckle. “I like to call it respectable teacher attire,” I say, getting off the bed. Placing the phone down on the bed faceup, I start to fold the clothes I will definitely not be wearing tonight.
“Is that what you are calling it?” She teases me as I look around at all the non-sexy clothes I have.
“I teach kindergarten,” I remind her. “I can’t go to school wearing stilettos and sexy clothes. All of my outfits are made for comfort. And after wearing a very expensive sweater one day, a cashmere sweater I bought for over a hundred dollars, and getting splashed by paint, I learned that it wasn’t worth dishing out the big bucks. The amount of clothing I’ve had to throw out from being stained or glued is crazy. So I go affordable.”
“If you want, you can swing by my place and borrow a couple of things,” she says, and I laugh out loud. She has the same wardrobe I have, only she might have sexier tops for when she goes out cruising, which seems to be every weekend.
“You think you have a better style than I do? You’re a social worker. You wear jeans and button-down shirts?” I ask her, trying to think back to the last time I saw her wear anything but jeans around me.
“The younger sister always has better style,” she teases, making me laugh, and I look down at her, my eyebrows pinching together and making her laugh.
“You are younger by two minutes and forty-eight seconds,” I remind her. “I don’t know if that counts.” It’s her turn to roll her eyes, the same blue eyes that I have, just a touch lighter because she’s sitting in the sun.
“Which is why you are my older sister, and I’m the younger sister.” She laughs, making me shake my head. “Stop shaking your head,” she says, and I sit down on my bed. They always say when you are a twin, you have a connection, and the two of us are no different. There are times when I feel what she is feeling and vice versa. Or the times I have a headache and call my mother, and she tells me that Julia has a headache.
The two of us are almost identical. The only thing is the way we wear our hair. We both have long hair down to the waist, but I part mine in the middle, and she flips hers to the side. When we were younger, we would try to trick people, and it usually worked except with our mom, who could tell us apart. She always knew who was who. I stop folding the clothes on the bed, picking the phone up again and looking straight at her. “Remind me again why I should do this?”
“Well, for one, it’s been seven months since you broke up with the douchecanoe.” She mentions my ex-boyfriend, Riley. We went to the same high school together, and she hated him even then, but when Julia and I went our separate ways in college, I caved and went out on a date with him. When I finally confessed to her that we were dating, she gave him a chance but still hated him. I should have listened to her because, three years later, I went on Facebook and saw one of my fellow teachers congratulating her sister on her engagement to my man. Or at least who I thought was my man. Needless to say, after I commented on the picture wishing the happy couple nothing but the best, we were done.