I really don’t know how to get over this and where to go from here, but Clem and I aren’t just friends or regular brother and sister. Being a twin means being there for each other even when your relationship isn’t fully functioning. I think other people would take some time away from each other and really figure out their feelings, but Clem and I live across the hall from each other and we share a car, so we have no choice but to figure this out as we go.

We spend all day vegging out and watching highlight reels of our favorite YouTube videos until it’s almost time for us to get ready. “What are you wearing to this thing tonight anyway?” I ask, reaching for her wavy hair, which still smells like coconut. I might give her a hard time about her braids, but I do love the way they hold the smell of our shampoo like she’s straight out of the shower.

Clem points down at her frayed cutoff jean shorts and Dad’s old undershirt that she cut into a tank top. “This?”

“Um, no,” I tell her. “Negatory on that, captain.”

I stand up and yank her to her feet. “If we’re going to have our Brewer Twins Go to a Gay Bar premiere, we’re going to look fabulous. We have to make a statement.”

“And the statement can’t just be ‘Look at me. I own clothing’?” she asks hesitantly.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” I warn.

Next door, in Clem’s room, I tear through her closet searching for anything we can work with, but it’s mostly jean shorts, black leggings, holey T-shirts, and a few short nineties-throwback dresses that aren’t awful but aren’t great either.

“Does this still fit you?” I ask, holding up a baby-blue spaghetti-strap dress with little daisies all over it.

“Um, that’s the dress Mom made me wear for Easter in seventh grade.”

I throw it at her. “Try it on.”

With my back turned, she does so. “I can’t believe you’re making me try on a dress from middle school. The last time I put this dress on, I didn’t even have boobs. If I even wore a bra with this dress, it was probably for theoretical purposes—ooh. Ow!” She grunts. “Okay, ta-da.”

I turn around.

“I don’t think Mom ever envisioned my Easter dress quite like this. Should I wear the cardigan that she bought for this?”

I snort. “Definitely not.” Clem’s once-ladylike seventh-grade Easter dress is now a mini with slip-dress vibes. “I can’t believe that thing even fit over your head. And not that I’m invested in your boobs in any way at all, but everything looks to be in tip-top shape.”

“Thank you?” she says with slow confusion.