Page 26 of Silks

Why won’t you let me fix this?

“No,” I snapped. “I will follow you around all goddamn night if I have to. You will not be motherfucking slutting it up with Chet.”

I knew I had severely fucked up as soon as I said it. My sister did not like the word slut. Ophelia twisted her head toward me and for one motionless second she gave me an absolute death stare, and I wanted to get out the words, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that, Ophelia, you know I didn’t,” but of course I wasn’t able to.

Especially since the dirty truth was that I was madly, wildly jealous of anyone she flirted with and the thought of her fucking Chet felt like she was flaying my skin open.

With one sharp, angry motion she threw her drink in my face. But I knew that would only be round 1. Her glass followed. And the next step was the vase of roses in the center of a nearby table. This year the silks our jockeys wore were black with a red rose pattern, and the vases were to honor this.

I didn’t even try to dodge the vase, just let her smash it across my shoulder and then across the deck in thousands of pieces.

The way my father’s jaw dropped when he saw me just stand there and refuse to dodge her blow was another reminder about my depraved little secret: that I burn, crave, live for my sister only. Ophelia is it for me.

There’s no getting over my feelings for her. There’s no meeting anyone else.

There’s only Ophelia for me, and that’s how it’s always been.

And so I let her hit me with the vase, and I was already apologizing before the pieces had even landed on the floor.

“It was my fault,” I said, turning to my parents who had come up open-mouthed.

“Ophelia Constantia Barrington!” Mom cried.

“I said something rude,” I countered, standing in between Mom and Ophelia.

I didn’t think Mom would try to slap Ophelia, but she’d done it before.

And that’s not something I permit.

I could see everyone from work staring at me with gobsmacked expressions on their faces.

They’re shocked that a class-A asshole like me is apologizing at all, let alone when he just got hit in the face with a vase.

But that’s how it’s always been with me.

I’m a class-A asshole who worships the motherfucking ground my sister walks on. Worships every single curve of her tits and belly and ass. Every single bitchy comment. Every fight she picks. Every horse and animal she fights to save.

Ophelia is alive, real, vivid, sharp with color, smart and angry and stubborn and strong and everyone else is dull in comparison.

Mom is in hysterics, shrieking that Ophelia is embarrassing the whole family, and I have to take a few minutes to quiet her.

“She’s always been wild!” Mom sobbed. “I don’t know how to make her behave properly.”

“It was my fault,” I said again, annoyed by any criticism of my twin, and bending down to pick up some of the big pieces of the vase.

Dad is watching me with sharp eyes.

I wonder how much he sees, how much he guesses.

And when I turn around, Ophelia is gone.

I flipped my phone out immediately to track her, heading down the dark passageways to the crew’s quarters, my anxiety and fear growing.

It’s only a few moments, but it feels like a long wait until I stop before one of the crew cabins.

I banged on the door.

“What the fuck?” I heard Chet’s ask. “Who’s there?”