We always laughed.
So two days earlier, when Luke had loaded his clothes, his gaming chair, and a box of mismatched dishes into my car and moved into a small two-bedroom apartment across town with Ben, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. I’d cried in the car afterward, of course. I’d raised him alone since his father died three years ago, and the house had felt enormous without him. But I had been happy for him. Proud of him.
Now he was standing in my kitchen with a locked door at his back, asking me not to call his best friend.
“You and Ben have been friends since you were kids,” I said carefully.
“I know.”
“You were so excited about moving in together. You talked about nothing else for months.”
“I know, Mom.”
“People have been calling you two twins for years.”
Luke finally looked at me. His voice was very quiet.
“That’s part of the problem.”
