Page 95 of Devil

He sets down his leather bag and comes around the island to where I’m sitting, pulls me into a hard hug. Lilith bats at the laces of his leather shoe as he does, but he lets her, an indulgent father.

“I thought you were bringing Busy?” he murmurs. “Sister bonding time?”

“I am. It will be. But everything is easier when you’re with me,” I whisper. I turn my face into his neck and inhale the smell of incense clinging to his skin. “Do you really have to go to the office today?”

“I promise that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t,” he says, and I know it’s true; I know he means it. He doesn’t even like it when we brush our teeth separately. But the clients for the skyscraper refitting are in town, and he’ll be in meetings and presentations all day, followed by a dinner after, and he’s already in a slightly tense place with his bosses as it is. Something to do with his shelter plan and antagonizing the city manager. He doesn’t seem bothered by it—or even by the idea of losing his job over it—but he’s also aware that missing an important client meeting wouldn’t be looked on indulgently right now.

“You’ll love the arts breakfast,” he says, pulling back to brush the hair off my face. “I’ve been the last three years. Decent food, the speeches are short, and it’s actually for a good cause. I’m just glad the tickets will get used.”

Bell—both a donor and a somebody in the city—has more invitations to fundraisers, galas, nights out, openings, and exhibitions than he can possibly go to, and I’ve gotten used to seeing them stacked neatly next to the calendar in the pantry, politely ignored until they’re recycled.

But today’s breakfast is for an arts nonprofit that’s funding the kinds of things Zenny had mentioned to me at the first family dinner—programs at schools and retirement homes and prisons and community centers. I wanted to go, and Bell encouraged me and suggested I bring Busy if I’d feel better going with someone, which obviously I would.

I just want it to be him.

He drops a soft kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you tonight,” he murmurs. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk and then feed you ice cream in bed and you’ll pretend not to notice when I let Lilith lick my spoon when I’m done.”

“Okay,” I whisper—bravely, I think—and then I’m given another kiss before he leaves.

And then I leave too.

Busy studiesthe plate in front of her, her mouth pulled to the side.

“I shouldn’t have gotten the eggs,” she says finally. “There’s just no way to cook eggs at scale and make them enjoyable to eat.”

I privately agree, but the memory of incessant, grasping hunger is still too fresh, and I’m dutifully eating the rubbery nuggets of scrambled egg while glancing at the program, where I’ve taken notes about different nonprofits that sound like they could use a volunteer teacher. The buffet will be out for a while longer, along with the silent auction items, but the breakfast has officially ended and the other guests at our table have already left to start milling and chatting before they leave.

“Maybe I’ll go up for more of this French toast casserole. It seems to be a more buffet-friendly dish,” Busy says. “We’ve got to get your boyfriend’s money’s worth, you know.”

She gives me an arched eyebrow, playful, a little snarky, but fond too, and I arch my eyebrow back at her, also playfully.

“Fancy charity breakfasts, a new truck, new clothes…” She smooths her hand over her thighs, over the burnt-orange midi dress she borrowed from me. “Are you sure you’re not dating a married guy? This isn’t normal boyfriend shit. There has to be a catch.”

I don’t love you normally, Birdie.

I think of the fully funded trust waiting for my twin, of my face against a truck window. Of a day seven years ago that ruined everything.

There’s no way to begin to explain things to Busy, and I don’t plan on trying, possibly ever, so I just smile at her. “We love each other. Isn’t there always a catch when you’re in love?”

“Hmm.”

“And you’ve met him, had dinner with him. A few times now. You see how he spoils me.”

“His love language is every love language when it comes to you,” she agrees. “Honestly, the catch might be how into you he is.”

“I like that,” I remind her quietly.

Her lips press together, shift from left to right, roll inward. Then she finally sighs—but gently. “I’m choosing to believe you, even though I worry that you can’t know what you like. He’s your first boyfriend ever. How could you have any idea what you want?”

She starts to stand, making it clear that it’s a rhetorical question and not a real one, and then someone comes to the table, a woman in a sleek, tailored jumpsuit, wearing a small diamond cross, her chestnut hair down in glossy waves?—

I go still, and Busy does too, half hovering. We both stare at Kaitlyn Masterson, who is looking at us with a determinedly pleasant gaze.

“Hello, Birdie,” she says. “Busy. It’s been a while.”

Busy slowly sits back down and puts her hands on the table. It doesn’t take twin-ly intuition to guess that she wants to use her butter knife in a violent fashion.

I wish Bell were here. I wish he were here so badly because just one squeeze of my thigh, one press of his palm to the back of my neck, and I’d be able to breathe evenly again; I’d be able to think. I shift my own hand in my lap to the place just above my knee and carefully squeeze without disturbing the tablecloth. I pretend Bell is doing it.