Chapter 3

More deep thoughts and processing.

xK!x

Their walk leads them to a worn down diner on the shorefront; the paint's peeling, and every surface on the outside has been greatly abused by the local seagull population.

"By the way lezza, your outfit is fucking atrocious," Morgan states as he slides into the booth opposite of Emily. There is no venom in the comment, and Emily knows it. She smiles and steps easily into her role.

"Fuck you. It's seven in the morning, you dragged me out of bed, and most of my clothes are still in Jal's bag."

Emily waits for her twin's retort. She watches his well-worn performance with mild fascination, the left eyebrow raises (still well-plucked), his jaw is set, and his deep brown eyes narrow into a fierce stare.

"There. Is. Never. An. Excuse. For Plaid," he states in solemn condemnation.

They stare each other down. This stubbornness is imbued in every cell in their bodies.

Morgan cracks first, letting out a small snort before surrendering to a full-fledged fit of giggles.

Emily follows suit a split second later.

By the time they order, it's established.

We're still us. Whatever "us" may be.

Emily feels a distinct shift in the atmosphere and takes a deep breath she feels like she's been holding for the last six months. This is just the beginning, and she knows it, but she lets her eyes wander around the small restaurant as the questions begin to bubble up to the surface.

It's still early, and the clientele is quite sparse. Two old men sit in a booth on the opposite side. Their weathered hands grip identical mugs of steaming coffee as they speak in deep, low murmurs and cast glances out onto the gray bay. A young woman and presumably her son sit at the front counter. She is attempting to move any breakable object out of the toddler's way, but is unsuccessful as he waves a jar of sugar above his head before sending it crashing to the ground with a gleeful shriek. Emily smiles as she watches the woman try to maintain a scowl, but her shaking shoulders give away her amusement with the situation.

She thinks of James. 6,000 miles away.

Emily turns her attention back to her other brother. The thought is jarring, but not unpleasant.

Just different.

Her twin is oblivious to the clamor. He is looking out of the window with a dreamy look on his face. Emily notices his napkin, which contains inky, hasty drawings. Simple illustrations of buttons, toggles, and zipper pulls are cramped together in a sporadic fashion.

Emily remembers when her twin first started carrying around a notebook everywhere. In college, the older twin had set his mind on being a savvy fashion designer and Vogue became the new King James' Bible. He had graduated from magazines to his own designs, a pen never far from his fingertips.

One day on the bus, her twin, multi-tasking as usual, simultaneously berated Emily for not wanting to go to the Love Ball with Danny's mate and sketched out different buckle designs. Cook grabbed her twin's notebook and loudly asked 'Katiekins' how she was going to be a designer when she was going to be performing a marathon of blow jobs as a WAG.

Cook couldn't walk right for a week after that and Emily had yelled at him for his misdirected sense of loyalty.

But nonetheless, the sketchbooks stayed home, and Emily would fall asleep every night to the sound of a pen quietly scratching across paper.

You can't suppress the passion of a Fitch. It just comes roaring back with exponential velocity.

A waitress brings them two mugs of black coffee and Emily shakes her head from yet another reverie. It is all she seems able to do for the last twelve hours in her twin's presence. Thinking back and sifting through memories. Trying to find the moment when they became strangers to each other while the world still saw them as carbon copies: Emily & Katie. Katie & Emily. The girls. The twins.

"Morgan. Mmmooorgan. Morgennnnnnnnn." Emily teases. Her mouth stumbles over the consonants and vowels in various arrangements. She is pleased at the eye roll she solicits from her brother.

"What? I have to break it in. Think of it like new shoes."

"Fuck off"

"Mooooorgan uh… Fitch. Wait, what's your middle name?" Emily queries. Thinking for a moment, of how strange of a question it is for someone so familiar.

"Alistair," Morgan quickly responds. His lisp adds a sibilant flair to the name.

Emily pauses a moment, a goofy smirk erupting on her face. "Ah, Alistair. Grandfather Alistair. The source of all Fitch fury and fierceness." And then she quietly adds, "He would've been proud to know you."

Emily watches Morgan's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows hard to keep emotion down, while Emily also tries to contain herself by gripping the edges of the table, her vision blurry from unshed tears. They both sit there in an agitated silence. Natural inclinations of crying battling their mother's lifelong influence: never express emotions in public.

The spell is broken as the waitress diverts their attention with a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and hash browns for Emily and a stack of waffles, a bowl of oatmeal, two sausages, and an omelet for Morgan. It's Emily's turn for a raised eyebrow as she realizes for the first time in history, her twin's appetite rivals her own.

"So," Emily begins between mouthfuls. "How's that personal wardrobe assistant job in San Francisco?"

"Good, good. You know, helping the hopeless," Morgan replies while setting up another spoonful of oatmeal. "It's really a side gig, like, my main focus is this Fall runway show happening up in Sonoma, it's big wine country, and it attracts a lot potential clients for weddings and big business marketing campaigns…"

Emily finds the conversation flows easily for the rest of the meal. She half listens to Morgan describing his passion-filled projects, but really, she's particularly fascinated by all the differences in her twin. His skin looks different, and Emily realizes it is partially because it's makeup-free. He is wearing a crisp, dark blue button up with a skinny black tie. An assortment of simple silver rings adorns various fingers, and he still has the nervous habit of twirling the ring on his left thumb, a new one, a silver wing, in endless circles with his forefinger. His crew cut is topped with a flamboyant quiff, and even though his brown eyes look tired, he seems happy.

No amount of change could hide that fact from Emily.

Eventually, the tables turn and Emily finds herself telling her brother about her trip across America, the strange adventures she and Jal had and the most unusual reactions to their English accents. She explains the dances of the trains. She talks about Cook, and skirts around the elephant of their parents.

The two old men vacate their seats by the window and step out the glass doors. Their steps are in synch as they head back towards the water's edge.

The woman carries her son out over her shoulder, moving gingerly, so as not to wake him from his post-sugar crash slumber.

The waitress brings the check after the third refill of coffee.

And everything is new.