I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yeah. The Santiagos said I can always join them for dinner if I want. It’s just … there are so many kids. It’s loud. And I can only eat so many casseroles. Who knew regular people ate this much casserole? Seriously, they make a casserole out of everything. Oh look, fish! Let’s make a casserole. Chicken? Casserole night. Hot dogs? No problem. Casserole coming up. Dude, I’m not shitting you. I had a hot dog casserole last week. It took everything in me not to gag as I choked it down.”

“You’re a spoiled brat.”

I let free a long, long whine. “I aaaaam!”

Asher chuckled. “I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, what about a bank loan if not a student loan?”

“I’m hanging up.”

Asher laughed and disconnected first.

A bank loan.

A freaking bank loan. As if.

Could this be more humiliating? My parents made enough money I could live off the interest in their bank account and never have to work another day in my life, but no, I had to be gay, and they had to be too close-minded to accept a gay son.

Why did I get the gay gene? How does that happen? When the embryo split and I made Asher—because we all know I’m the original and he’s the carbon copy—somehow his cell makeup turned out all straight and narrow and my cell makeup turned out all … glittery and curvy.

Whatever. I knew my analogy made no sense, but I was a computer genius, not a fucking geneticist. All I knew was my twin brother, my other half, got to live at home, eat good food, and had his university paid for while I was living in a spider-infested basement, eating ninety-nine cent cans of ravioli for dinner, with a deadline to pay my next year’s fees.

And I was broke.

“HI, I NEED MONEY.”

“Yeah, you and everyone here.” The lady behind the counter at the bank blinked her mascara-thickened eyelashes and puckered her cherry-red lips like I’d said the stupidest thing. Which, maybe I kinda had.

“That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong. What I meant was, I need to apply for a loan. A big one.”

She studied me for a beat before shifting to her computer. Her long acrylic nails tapped on her keyboard as she side-eyed me. “Do you bank with us?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I lifted my chin, pride swelling in my chest as I remembered opening my first bank account a month ago when I got the job at West End Pumps. Yeah, twenty-one years old and opening my first account seemed odd at the time, but it felt good. It felt like the birthing of my independence—that was before I knew the true definition of independence.