of the blue weeks ago, and we’ve talked every night. He needs someone who understands what a messy divorce feels like; someone who isn’t his brother, and isn’t his friend who’s going through the same thing with his own family. I’m that person. Kid of a messy divorce should be a bullet point on my resume. Nothing new to Hollywood, I suppose.
“Nines, right?” June holds a pair of shoes out for me, letting them dangle from the tethered laces hooked on her finger.
“Yep,” I say, followed by a tight smile. She hits me with a matching expression. Something is definitely off. Besides, she knows I wear nines. She wears nines. I wear her shoes all the time!
Hayden’s body falls into the seat attached to mine, his large frame making me instantly feel crowded. I slip my foot into my shoe and glance to the left at his, noting the size before he puts his foot inside.
Twelves.
I finish tying my laces, then slide my other shoes underneath my seat. Tory has typed in our names, and he put me at the end. I’m glad about that because me and sports of any kind are not on the same page. I’m not even sure how this ball comes off my fingers when the time is right. June has worked here for more than a year, and in that time, all I’ve ever done is drink sodas and roll pool balls back and forth in the bar area while waiting for her to get off.
Hayden leaves the space next to me and I glance up at him in time to catch his wink and smile. He’s adorable, the way his hair squiggles down over his forehead and one eye is always squinting just a little more than the other. I’ve often heard that twins try to differentiate themselves from each other as they get older, sort of a way to stand out and break away from their carbon copy. I see the evidence of that when I stare at the D’Angelo boys. Hayden is a little sloppy sometimes, but in a cute way. He wears a lot of T-shirts, always half tucked under slightly wrinkled button downs, and his jeans are sometimes, maybe, just a little tiny bit too short. Again . . . in a cute way. He wears the beach boy look, if that’s a thing in Indiana. As good as he is at basketball, I wouldn’t flinch seeing him run by with a long board under his arm and board shorts slung low on his hips. I’m probably the only one who thinks that since basketball is religion in this state. The brothers share the same hazel eye color, the same light brown hair that’s sometimes amber, sometimes gold, depending on the season, and the same body type that oh-my-God! The twins have always been hot. And they are identical. But through their own efforts, they’re also very much not. Tory is polished. His hair is somehow always in the perfect place, even after a two-hour basketball practice or after pulling off a football helmet. His wardrobe looks like the ones I see on the commercial shoots I do. Things match, like the kind of match you see on department store mannequins or in catalogues. And he must time his shaving just right because where Hayden is always baby-face fresh, Tory is frat-boy stubble.
He’s also frat-boy brash. In all the years we’ve known each other, Tory D’Angelo is the one person I can count on to always have something snarky to say, his own little flair for turning me off. Lately, though, he’s been tempered. Not quiet, but just not . . . Tory. I’ve spent a lot of time talking with Hayden about his parents’ fallout, and there’s no way Tory isn’t feeling it too. In his own way.
“Look at you, throwing an eleven-pounder, Mabee,” Tory teases as June walks up with a bright green ball cupped in her hands. She curls one arm to form a bicep and Tory laughs.
“Can I use yours?” I ask her, standing and walking over to the ball return where she’s just sat the green ball down. June twists her mouth up on one side and Tory snickers before turning his body away from me in his seat. I stare at the top of his head, doing my best to burn laser beam holes through his skull.
“What’s so funny?” I object, shifting my stare from his head to June’s face.