Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I find the whole conversation fascinating.
“Your brother’s name is Dallas. I take it he was born there?”
“Conceived.” Duke laughs. “Born in a town south of there. My pops was in Dallas for a game. I was maybe three or four at the time. Mama was stayin’ at a hotel so she could watch the game and not have to drive all the way home afterward. Nine months later, out came Dallas.”
Out came Dallas? He makes it sound like they ordered his brother from a bakery.
“And the younger brothers?”
“The Twins—that’s what I call them. Always into trouble and even though they’re not identical identical, they like to cause mischief.”
“So they’re identical, but they’re not? How does that work?”
“Pretty easy to tell them apart once you get to know them. One’s taller. The other one has darker hair. Drake has freckles. Drew has dimples. Same but different, I dunno.”
“I always wanted to be an identical twin. When I was younger, I had this book series about identical twins, Elizabeth and Jessica, and I would have given anything to have a sister I could play tricks with.” I laugh. “Or oh my gosh, twin daughters. How neat would that be?”
He shrugs. “Sounds horrible. Twin teenage girls? I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on.” I nudge his arm across the center console. “Teenage girls aren’t all that bad.”
“If you say so.”
We drive on, my nerves starting to get the best of me as we officially enter Madison, Wisconsin, passing the WELCOME TO MADISON sign, HOME OF THE WISCONSIN BADGERS.
“How are you going to explain me to your brothers?”
He glances over. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. What are you going to tell them?”
“That I’m stayin’ with you? They won’t care. They’re so self-absorbed they won’t even realize we’re there.”
But the second we drive up, arriving at a white house off campus with a rickety old porch, a banged-up screen door, and dead plants in the front yard—three overgrown boys come stumbling down the steps, shoving and pushing each other, each trying to reach the truck before the other.
“What the hell…” I mutter. “What are they doing?”
“Wrestlin’.” He laughs, parking directly in front of the house—shoving the truck into park and unbuckling his seat belt before climbing out.
“I’m GOIN’ IN!” Duke shouts, throwing himself on top of the three figures already in the dirt slash grass; they look like a heap of children, giving each other headlocks and knuckles to the skull, yelping and laughing in hysterics all at the same time.
“Oh. My. God,” I mutter, watching the spectacle on the front lawn (if you can call it a front lawn) thinking that the house is a complete shithole and could use some tender loving care. “Of course they’re wrestling. Why wouldn’t they be wrestling in the middle of broad daylight, in the front yard?”
They look like some of my little boys, the ones in my class who insist on roughhousing at school because they lack the self-control not to do it indoors.
Suddenly, Duke is on the ground too, and all four of them are laughing and hollering, causing a few girls in the house next door to come outside on their porches and watch.
“I wonder what’s going through their minds,” I wonder out loud, opening my door and stepping out, careful not to get bonked by an errant leg or foot.
There’s nothing to do but stand by and watch until it’s over. I cast glances at the houses nearby; at the other students who are either watching from their windows or porches, curiously.
“They’re not drunk,” I shout out to the girls next door. Then add, “I don’t think.”
Because, to be honest, I can’t exactly be sure.
I stand idly as the boys knock around for another two or so minutes until they come up for air, laughing as they help each other off the ground. Hugs all around, dirt-covered jeans and shirts and dust in their hair and on their faces.
Holy shit—I’ve never seen four brothers who look so much alike.
One set of twins? It’s like looking at four carbon copies, one better looking than the next.
And Duke is right, the twins—or are obviously the twins—look the same but also different, one shorter than the other by a few inches but otherwise very similar.
Yet different?
I’m babbling, even in my thoughts, gearing up for the introduction.
“You must be Miss Posey,” one of the boys says. “I’m Drew.”
You must be Miss Posey…
My hand juts out. “I am Posey—it’s good to meet you.”
I’m shocked he knows my name already but realize Duke obviously shared with them that he would have a ride-along; still, I’m surprised at the guy’s manners.
Drew is tall, with glasses slipping down his nose and a lopsided, polite grin.
He nudges his brother in the ribs.
“I’m Drake.”
“Hi, Drake, I’m Posey.” I say it again, but why I’m repeating myself, I do not know. Why am I nervous? I do not know.