Kiss the Twin

A year ago today, Tristan confessed to me in the library.

No flowers, no candlelight—just a borrowed book slid across the table with a note tucked inside: Will you be my girlfriend?

Afterward he held me and said, "Next time—when you turn twenty-one—I'll do it right. Somewhere public. Everyone will know you're the most important person in my life."

Now it was here.

I'd spent all week planning my birthday party. Twenty-one meant legal drinks, official adulthood. Mostly, it meant I wanted Tristan to show up for me.

But a smaller question kept picking at me: Does he even want people to see us together?

Three months ago, Celeste Hartwell came back to town. She'd grown up next door to Tristan. Their families had been tangled together forever.

Within a week, Tristan canceled on me three times.

"She just got back from Europe," he'd said. "You know how much the Hartwells mean to my family."

I knew Celeste never used my name. Just "that scholarship girl."

I knew she linked her arm through Tristan's at parties and posted the pictures like they were a statement.

I knew Tristan always brushed it off. "That's just Celeste. Don't read into it."

And I knew the part that mattered most: when Tristan had to choose, he never chose me.

I told myself my birthday would be different.

Nine o'clock.

"Emergency meeting." Tristan shrugged off his jacket, out of breath. His eyes swept the room. "Nice setup."

"You okay?" I tried to hook my arm through his.

He patted my shoulder—one quick tap—and moved past me toward the crowd.

I stood there, hot with embarrassment. It's my birthday. He's my boyfriend. Why do I feel like a chore?

Amy appeared beside me with a drink. "Why's he acting like that?"

"He's tired," I said automatically.

But I watched him laugh with his frat brothers like nothing was wrong. He still hadn't said happy birthday. He hadn't touched me again.

I played the happy birthday girl anyway.

Then the door swung open.

Celeste walked in like she belonged there. Golden curls, red lipstick, that effortless confidence that made rooms tilt toward her.

She wasn't on the guest list. I knew that. But nobody stopped her.

Tristan saw her and crossed the room immediately.

She said something low. He laughed—easy and open, the laugh I used to think was mine.

Someone turned the music up. The party loosened. People pushed the coffee table back.

"Spin the bottle!" one of the frat guys shouted, already setting an empty bottle down.

Half the room cheered, half groaned, but everyone sat anyway.

Tristan dropped into the circle across from Celeste.

The bottle spun.

It landed on Celeste.

The room erupted. Whistles. Shouts.

Celeste smiled and looked straight at Tristan.

He didn't hesitate.

He leaned in and kissed her.

Tristan's hand slid to her waist. Her fingers threaded into his hair like she'd done it a hundred times.

Something in my chest split.

"What the hell are you doing?" My voice shook, but it cut through the room.

The music died. Everyone turned.

Tristan pulled back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The red stain stayed.

Celeste smoothed her hair, calm as a queen, eyes bright with satisfaction.

I pointed at Tristan's mouth. "You're going to pretend that didn't happen? You kissed her in front of everyone—what am I to you?"

My eyes burned. I refused to blink. "Tell me, Tristan—are you my boyfriend, or hers?"

Celeste snorted. "So boring." She rolled her eyes. "Getting worked up over one kiss. If she knew we used to share a bed as kids, she'd probably faint."

A few people laughed—nervous, unsure.

Tristan's face tightened with irritation. "Can you not make a scene? It's a game. Do you have to be such a buzzkill?"

A game.

My hands went cold. My party, my week of planning, my one night I'd asked him to show up—and he was acting like I'd ruined it by noticing.

I swallowed and forced my voice steady. "Since it's just a game," I said, "I can play too."

Tristan nodded like I'd asked to borrow a pen. "Sure. Go for it. These are all my brothers anyway."

One of the frat guys lifted his palms. "Ophelia, don't be mad. It's just a game. We're all friends here."

I looked around at the faces—sympathetic, curious, entertained. Nobody moved toward me. Nobody moved away from Tristan. They were waiting to see what I'd do next, like I was part of the party's entertainment.

The awkwardness stretched until Tristan clapped his hands.

"New game," he announced, pushing the moment forward like a mess under a rug. "Truth or dare. Prove we're all friends."

Celeste went first. She drew and smiled.

"Kiss card," she read. Then she looked at Tristan. "I choose Tristan."

My stomach turned. Tristan didn't even look at me. He just waited, like of course he would.

Before Celeste could move, someone stood from the corner.

Felix.

Tristan's twin. Same face, different energy—quiet, usually invisible. People always forgot he was at these things.

Now nobody forgot.

Felix walked to the center without speaking, reached down, and took the kiss card from Celeste's hand.

Celeste blinked. "You—"

"Rules don't say the card can't change hands," Felix said.

His voice was calm. Not loud. Still, it shut the room up.

Then his gaze slid past Celeste, past Tristan, and landed on me.

He held the card out.

"Do you dare?"