The garage door is open, of course, and your dad is in there, clattering around with some new fitness contraption or another when he spots you slouching up the drive.
"Emsy!" he exclaims, looking up, tripping over himself and knocking over his tools as he comes jogging out to meet you. "Jenna, love," he yells back at the house, "Quick! Emsy's come home!"
You barely manage to drop your rucksack from your shoulders, offer a smile and a "Hi, Dad," before you're pulled into a tight hug. It feels good; it's the most normal you've felt since stepping foot inside city limits after two and a half years. He hasn't changed, not a hair, though you note how his Fitch Fitness t-shirt is more worn than the last time you saw him in it. You suppose he hasn't printed new ones since the business went under, although he evidently hasn't quite let go. You relax into the hug and are thankful that he will never change - he will always be the same bumbling man-child who will always smell vaguely of sweat and floral fabric softener, and who will always, always be excited to see you.
He releases you from his vice grip after several long seconds and you step back, only then noticing the cool figure of your mother over his shoulder, leaning up against the house, silently regarding the scene in front of her.
"So you decided to come home," she greets you, and the hug she offers has none of the warmth of your dad's. You nod into her shoulder before pulling away, standing awkwardly opposite her.
"You've lost weight," she remarks, and you shrug. "Well, best get some food into you," she starts, gesturing towards the house, "Come in, then. Come in."
...
Your mum's cooking, it seems, is another constant in a household that (despite your mum's refusal to acknowledge it) thrives on conflict and upheaval. You find it oddly comforting to know that it hasn't yet, and may never improve. Tonight's offering is a thin broth that tastes vaguely of celery and ham, and a soggy quiche with altogether too much tinned asparagus. Your dad, of course, thinks it's mint.
You manage to yawn and nod your way through dinner with nothing of great consequence being said, your parents mostly talking quietly to one another, and your dad cooing over the food. When they do address you, for the most part they mercifully keep the conversation light - Katie is at work, and apparently hasn't yet had the inclination to move out, and James is, not surprisingly, at Gordon Macpherson's. Your dad inquires after your most recent destinations, those since your last postcard, and, at this, your mum thinly veils her displeasure at your overall lack of correspondence.
When she can no longer contain herself, she sighs, and fixes you with a stony gaze, "To be honest, Emily, I don't even really know what to say to you," reproach not absent from her tone.
You decide to retreat, rather than engage. "Don't start, okay?" you plead tiredly, "I'm exhausted. Is it okay if I go up and get some sleep?" at which she continues to look on expectantly until you add, "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"
Thankfully, she relinquishes, and motions toward the stairs, "There are still two beds in Katie's room."
You don't miss the subtle barb, but choose, for tonight, to ignore it. You kiss your dad on the cheek and head towards the stairs, ascending with heavy limbs towards your old room.
...
It's strange being back in here. It was barely your room at all - you really only lived in this house in the brief window between breaking your stasis at Naomi's and leaving Bristol altogether. There are still two beds, though, on opposite sides of the room - Katie's under the window, the other against the inside wall, neatly made and untouched. That corner of the room, your corner, is almost like a dollhouse, a diorama. The bedspread isn't one you recognise, and you think it seems fitting, even now, that while she didn't remove it completely, Emily's Bed has to conform with the whole that is Katie's Room. This room is unmistakably Katie's, though it is tidier and more grown up than a Katie three years ago would have it (gone are the posters and photo collages), but you regard the room like it is a stranger's. You let your fingers trace over perfume bottles, make-up, jewellery, a dog-eared copy of Gone with the Wind, as though trying to re-learn the essentials of the girl you once knew as intuitively as you once knew yourself.
...
You are vaguely aware of someone bustling about in the dark, but it's her unmistakable petulant huff that wakes you up.
"Fucking nice, this is. You disappear for god knows how long and then come back unannounced and just, like, fucking move back in or something," she begins without so much as a greeting, and you hear her stumble, followed by the dull thud of her stilettos being dropped to the floor.
"This is my room too," you reply hoarsely, rubbing your eyes with your wrist as you sit up, noting that you are fully clothed on top of the blankets, "sort of."
"Not for, like, two years or whatever," she counters, crossing from the centre of the room and flicking on the light, "you're just bloody lucky I didn't throw your bed out with the rest of the stuff you left behind."
You just nod and sit on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees while your eyes adjust to the light.
"Well?" she asks, and you raise your eyebrows questioningly.
"Fuck sakes," she mutters, beginning to sound exasperated, and all but lunges toward you. "Come here you stupid cow," she exhales before pulling you up roughly into a tight hug.
You close your eyes and relax against her, and it's strange, you think, how you fit together like this. You were never perfect compliments, twins never are, you suppose, and you and Katie were never quite alike enough to get along. You are mirror images of one another; you have always been at odds.
"Christ, you're a bit bloody skinny," she remarks as she pulls away, giving you the once over, "Ems, you look a bit shit, babes."
You nod again and regard her silently.
Katie is brassier than when you left. Bronzed. Every inch of her is polished, primped and preened, and she seems to cast an artificial golden glow around her. It's a bit of a stark contrast to your grown out, sun bleached hair and pallid skin. You look down at your ripped black jeans and worn out canvas sneakers. Once you'd have forgiven people for mistaking you for one another. Today you'd be surprised if you were recognised as sisters, let alone twins.
"And what about you?" you ask, and she looks taken aback and ready to take the offensive, "You look like a bloody tangerine."
"I what? Graham says I look well fit," she shrieks, glancing down to adjust her tits as a retort.
"Graham?" you ask in surprise, "From mum's work?"
"Yeah," she replies, suddenly coy, "from work."
Your shock is palpable, but you say nothing as you sit back on the edge of the bed.
"Yeah, well," she continues, scarcely concealing the challenge behind her eyes, "I needed a job, didn't I? You fucked off, so one of us had to help out mum and dad. How else is dad going to reopen the gym?"
"He wants to reopen the gym?" you ask, no less surprised.
She looks at you like you've grown a second head, "Christ sakes, Em," she scoffs, throwing her hands up, "he's been planning this for ages."
"I've been away," you answer simply.
"Yeah, I fucking noticed."
"I'm back now, Katie," you say firmly, looking her right in the eye, "can we please just try and get along?"
She's still standing in the centre of the room, and she regards you for a long time, "I fucking missed you, you know?"
"I know," you reply, letting your head drop down into your hands, still able to feel her watching you from across the room. "I missed you too," you finally tell her, and it's true enough, when you say it.
She relaxes then, and turns off the light, shuffles around until you hear her getting into bed.
"Goodnight, Ems," she says softly.
"Goodnight."
After a long pause, she sighs, "Next time, say goodbye. Alright?"