The Sun and the Star

I am a twin. When my brother and I were born, they say we were holding hands. They say they had to pull our little hands away from one another, and that we cry until we were parted.

My parents named me Estelle, for the stars. They named him Cyrus, for the sun. Cyrus. Princes have been called lesser things. No prince is such a man.

Star and Sun. Estelle and Cyrus. Sometimes I wonder if my parents knew what they were doing when they named us, or if it was just some hippy bullshit. Did they know we'd be so close, so much the same? Like wrenched-apart heavenly bodies, always trying to find their way back home? Maybe so, maybe not. Did they know we would fuck relentlessly, ceaselessly, right under their noses? Of that, I'm pretty sure, they had no idea at all.

***

His hair is black but mine is brown. His skin is a little more olive and he laughs at all my jokes until there are tears in his eyes. If I'd gone into a life of crime, he would have been my only conspirator. His name was my first word.

Growing up, Cyrus and I shared a bathroom, as brothers and sisters do. I remember his soap next to my soap in the shower, the smell of Irish Spring so intoxicating to me I could barely see straight, the sight of his towel hanging over my robe filling me with a kind of dark warmth I didn't understand. I think I always knew I loved him in a way that wasn't quite like anybody else loved their brother. I think I knew I wanted him in a way that wasn't entirely ordinary. But the thing was, it just felt so fucking natural. So fucking right.

I remember staring at him when he didn't know I was watching and wondering if he ever did the same. I remember knowing in college that I loved him, really loved him, and trying to tell my therapist so. I said, "My brother though. There's nobody like him."

And the therapist perked up, in a way that said it all, like his whole dissertation had been about incestuous sibling love.

"Is that so?"

I nodded. I wasn't on a therapist's couch. I was on a cheap sofa with cheaper cushions, and I said, "Doesn't everybody love their brother?"

And he narrowed his eyes and sort of hung onto his chair like he couldn't fucking wait to hear what I had to say. Like he was getting turned on at the very notion.

I never went back to that therapist. I never let him into this world.

***

My first trip home from college, he was there to pick me up. It was before 9/11 and so he came to pick me up at the airport and came all the way to the gate. I remember walking down that jet-way and seeing his beautiful face there, waiting for me, arms crossed, watching. Just that quick smile when he saw me, like he'd always been waiting for me, like it was just the two of us left in the world.

He grabbed me and twirled me around, like lovers do. I'm sure that's what everybody thought we were. I reveled in that. I have no memory of walking to get my bag. I only remember him next to me. His smell, his bicep brushing against mine. Noticing a few gray hairs at his temples already, and thinking that was handsome.

It was raining that night, and he ran to get the car so I didn't have to get wet. He drove up to the passenger pickup, his hair dripping, rolled down the window and said, "Hey, beautiful," in that way that wasn't really a joke at all.

We drove home together in the storm, listening to music too loud and glancing at each other in the dimness of his Bronco, only illuminated by that weird blue light of the clock on the dash. He never set the clock. He didn't give a shit. Neither did I. There was no such thing as time then. It was just us, in the dark, on the road. His eyes glinted, fuck how they glinted. He was always handsome, but I felt like I saw something in him nobody else could. Or should.

When we got back to the house, we were alone. Mom and Dad weren't home. They were probably out at some cocktail party, I'm sure. I don't even know. I didn't even care. All I wanted was to see him. All I wanted was him.

He was still soaked through and he said he was going to jump in the shower.

"Okay, sure," I said, feeling that fucking pang in my guts because that meant he'd be away from me. I hated that. I hated not being with him. Always had.

I don't know how it happened, exactly, but I found myself on the floor outside the bathroom. I had always loved listening to him getting into the shower, that noise of his body in the tub, the water running over it. You know that sound, the noise of water running of a body onto the enamel. It sounds different than anything else in the world. I loved feeling the steam seep out from under the door, knowing that steam had been near him, or even on him. I loved hearing that faucet turn off, and the drip-drip-drip of the water running off his body before he grabbed a towel. I loved hearing him breathe into the towel as he dried off. All those sounds, all those things unseen.

***

He always locked his bedroom door. When we were growing up, I could hear him in there talking to girlfriends or watching Skinamax and it made me crazy. I wanted to be in there, I wanted to be near him, I wanted to press my nose to his chest and memorize his fucking smell forever. But the door was always locked, always.

So that night, after he showered, we ate dinner, we had beers that we stole from dad's stash in the garage. We watched tv, and then it was getting late.

"I'm going to bed, Stell," he said.

My least favorite words in the English language, but what the hell was there to do? "Yeah, alright. I'll see you in the morning."

He didn't say anything. Nothing at all, but I didn't notice. I was cleaning up after dinner, and I walked down the bedroom hallway towards my room, which was the last one. His was first, then mine second. Sun then Star. Always. And then I did what I always did, which was jiggle his doorknob to say hi, or fuck you, or I love you. Pick your meaning.

Except this time, he hadn't locked the door and the knob twisted in my hand.

"Sorry," I said. I knew I should fucking shut that door. Rules were rules. But I didn't shut it and he didn't tell me to either.

"Come on in," he said. "Missed you, you know."

I leaned in. He was in bed. He had his arms behind his head. Gray tee-shirt, boxers. And I won't even lie. I could see he was hard.

"Sorry," I said again.

"Stop fucking apologizing," he said, pulling back the sheets. "And get in here."

(To Be Continued...)

***

Thank you to my readers for catching a big error in the previous version of this story! Live and learn! Pt. 2 is coming to you soon!

xoxo Estelle