I walked through my father's massive study, pulling out the leather Ottoman office chair and plopping into it messily. I straightened the cuffs on my oxford, a gift from Fiona. "It isn't any blue, Decs," I can hear her saying, remembering when she gave it to me for our birthday last year, "It's the color of our eyes. Columbia blue." Suddenly a familiar dull ache I thought I'd grown accustomed to. Emptiness. Without Fiona, my twin, my biological other half, I felt completely alone. Alone in the New York house, dad always fleeting awkwardly from room to room, not knowing what to do without mom (or his mistresses) around constantly. Alone at Vanderbilt, no one to sit beside at my fifth period lunch and whisper crude things about our fellow classmates with. No one to love- or rather try to love.
I, out of both blatant curiosity and pure nosiness, opened my father's file holder, and searched until I found Fiona's personal file, right behind mine. Even in file form, we were always right beside eachother. I pulled it out, shocked at how thick it became since the last time I looked through it just a few months ago. After flipping through notes from her therapist and filled prescriptions for anxiety medication, I found a crumpled piece of Fiona's personal stationary; FROM THE DESK OF MISS FIONA COYNE, the top of the note read proudly. I had the matching stationary in my bedroom, another thing we always did together. I scanned over the note, noticing that it was Fiona's handwriting. Before I could get excited, I read the note from my doting mother, stapled to the back. "Darling," it began, as did all of their correspondence. "I found this in the Toronto house. I'm not sure who it's about, but at least we know Fiona still has hope for something. Yours always, Laura." I quickly flipped the note back over to read what Fiona wrote, in her loopy handwriting I could tell apart from anyone else's.
"You've just left, and I can't stop thinking about you. Your face, your voice, your touch...How you listen to me when no one else does; How it's easier to be with you than not. How when we're together, I never want it to end; It'd be easier if I didn't feel this way, 'cause there are a million reasons why we shouldn't work. But even though I know that, I really hope that we will."
At first, a brand new pang struck in my heart, a feeling I'd never felt before, at least not to this degree, and it rattled down my spine like lightning to a metal rod. Jealousy. Then, the tears came. My sister- my soulmate- had found someone else to fill the hole in her heart, leaving me with a Fiona-shaped hole in my own. After clutching the note to my chest for a moment, I remembered something. Fiona, always panicked someone would read her journal, would write the date of the entry on the back of the page in white colored pencil, that way she could lie and say she was just writing a story. Turning the note over and grabbing a pencil from my father's drawer, I scribbled all over the back, waiting to unveil the white waxy numbers of her pencil. After they appeared, my heart dropped. It was dated the day I left Toronto, the last time I saw my sister besides over Skype calls and Twitpics. That week was completely dedicated to one thing and one thing only; Holly J and how to get her back. I went up there to recieve my director's award and to see my sister, but all I cared about was Holly J. At the time, I was too blind to see how badly Fiona really needed me, and how badly I needed her. That entire year, I basically ignored everything Fiona did. She came to me, telling me how Bobby abused her, and I simply shrugged it off. I knew she had drinking problems and mental problems, but like everything else, I just shrugged it off. Before I knew what I was even doing, I picked up my phone and texted Fiona. "I miss you so much, Fi." Almost instantly, I got a reply back. "I miss you more, Decs. Really."
And just like that, everything came back to me, like waves crashing against the shore. Memories of devious looks from across the room at our parents' parties, of secret games of footsie under the dinner table, subtle gropes under the table when meeting with families of fellow diplomats. Memories kept rushing in; memories of sneaking into eachothers' hotel rooms in foreign countries, of pretending to be engaged to get free wine at restaurants, of the way her skin felt, the way she smelled, the way she would whisper my name into my ear. Memories of first kisses, of violent fights, sticking together in new schools, and memories of just laying together, fitting together like puzzle pieces; like the latters of a DNA latter. Not only were we basically copies of eachother, but our hearts were as well.
I had to see her. As soon as physically possible.