Finding Fisher Page 4

  He laughs. “I don’t remember saying anything about cooking. But I’m sure there’s something in the kitchen that I can put together.”

  “I’m a picky eater,” I admit.

  Shaking his head he says, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Then to my surprise he grabs my hand. “Come on.”

  His hand is much warmer than I expect and I get a bit tingly as he pulls me into his small kitchen. I do my best to ignore my response. My body clearly doesn’t realize it’s my dead fiancé’s brother who is touching me and has no business getting tingly.

  The kitchen space doesn’t feel much bigger than a coat closet and definitely wasn’t designed for two people.

  The moment Fisher drops my hand I sneak a quick peek at my palm to make sure there isn’t any residual grease from his hand on mine.

  But I seem to be clean.

  When he opens the refrigerator I’m struck by how utterly bare it is. There are a few bottles of beer, a half-full jug of milk that looks gray and a hunk of moldy cheese with a bite taken out of the side of it.

  That’s the extent of the contents.

  “What do you plan on putting together with that?” I wave at the few items in the fridge.

  “We can drink beer.” He looks over at me. “You do drink beer, don’t you? You’re a college student. I think it’s a requirement.”

  I shake my head. “Not if I can help it. I usually stick with wine.”

  “This isn’t really a wine kind of place. I think they sell some boxed wine up at the corner liquor store.”

  “And let me guess. The options are white or red.”

  “They cover all the bases.” He opens the freezer. “I’m pretty sure I still have frozen pizza that I haven’t eaten.” He removes a small box with several inches of ice covering it.

  “Been in there a while?”

  “A while is a nice estimate.”

  “And heaven forbid you should get more specific than that.” I push some of the accumulated frost from the outer covering. “Think there’s an expiration date on here anywhere?”

  He shakes his head. “Doubt it. Where’s your sense of adventure? Let’s just pop it in the oven and see what happens.”

  “I’m not that adventurous when it comes to food poisoning.”

  “Now come on. Be honest. You’re not adventurous, period.”

  “You’re right. I’m not adventurous. But I think adventure is overrated. So is spontaneity. They’ve been hyped by the hipster crowd. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer everything neatly planned and well organized.”

  He looks me up and down. “I can see that. But not everything always goes according to plan does it?” His eyes land on my diamond engagement ring.

  For the first time since Franklin gave me the ring I actually consider taking it off. But I can’t bring myself to remove it. It seems too soon. And part of me still feels attached to him even though he’s gone.

  “Fine. I’ll have your popsicle pizza that’s probably been in this freezer since you moved in. And I’ll drink your beer. Happy?”

  “Actually I am. I can’t say that happens very often. But there’s something about provoking you that brings me tremendous pleasure.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” I frown.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I know better than that.”

  Once the pizza has baked Fisher removes two beers from the refrigerator and hands them to me. “Follow me.”

  There’s a small dinette just outside the kitchen where he places the pizza then gathers napkins and two paper plates. “If we do this right we won’t have to do any dishes. You can drink out of the bottle can’t you?”

  I heave an exaggerated sigh. “If I must.”

  “You’re kind of spoiled, you know that?”

  “That happens sometimes when you’re an only child and your parents make more money than they can ever spend in five lifetimes.”

  He shakes his head. “Must have been rough.”

  “No one gets to decide what family he or she is born into. You only decide what happens after that.”

  “Not everyone gets the chance to go to Stanford or Harvard Law.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for working hard.”

  “But you have to admit you also got a little bit of an advantage in the race. It’s not like you started at the bottom of the pack.”

  I look around. “Franklin didn’t seem to have any advantages and he still made it.”

  “Franklin was different. Special.”

  “What was it like? Being his twin brother? The two of you look a lot alike. Yet you’re so different.”

  He points at the pizza. “You’d better eat up. Before it gets cold.”

  I narrow my gaze. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “I’m trying to save you from having to eat cold, disgusting pizza. When it’s hot it’s a little less disgusting.”

  “You really know how to charm the ladies. Disgusting pizza and beer straight from the bottle.” I pick up my bottle and take a large swig for emphasis. It’s so bitter I have to choke it down. “Yum.”

  “I know I’m no substitute for Franklin. He was the golden boy and now he’s gone. And I’m all that’s left. Spare parts…that’s all I was ever good for. We had the same bodies, but completely different minds.”

  He takes a large swig of his beer and looks a little lost in his own thoughts.

  I grab a slice of the cardboard pizza and take a nibble. But it’s just enough for me to realize that I don’t need to take another bite. Calling it disgusting would actually be a compliment. It’s inedible at best.

  I take another sip of beer instead.

  “You know a lot of people couldn’t tell us apart if we didn’t talk.”

  “You have a dimple. Franklin didn’t. And your eyes are a lot brighter than his were. They actually sparkle a little in the sunlight.”

  He nearly chokes on the sip of beer he just took. “Please tell me you’re not one of those chicks who likes sparkly guys. What were those books called?”

  “Are you talking about Twilight? With the sparkly vampires? Don’t worry. I wasn’t a fan of the books. And I’m not a fan of you either, so you don’t have to worry about me liking your sparkly eyes.”

  He pantomimes wiping sweat from his brow. “Phew, you had me worried for a split second.”

  He grabs a slice of the pizza and shoves nearly half the slice into his mouth. Then to my surprise he chews and swallows it. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Seriously?” I raise an eyebrow.

  He finishes the slice in his hand and grabs another. “Dig in.”

  “I’ll pass.” I take another swig of beer. I’m not usually much of a drinker, and I’m starting to feel a bit lightheaded. “Did you and Franklin ever play tricks on people because you looked so much alike?”

  He nods. Then takes another sip of beer before he says, “Franklin was the only reason I made it through high school.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m good with my hands. Good with tools. I can build or fix just about anything.”

  “Even a front porch?” I cut in.

  “I plan on getting to that. I just haven’t had much free time.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your story.”

  “As I was saying…” He makes a point of glaring at me. “I’m not as good when it comes to book learning. I was never an honors student like Franklin. I was always in regular classes, and barely passed most of those. When he could Franklin would trade places with me and take my tests. It’s the only way I made it through school.”

  “I didn’t think he’d ever cheat,” I say.

  “In school or on you?” he asks.

  “Either. Both.”

  “You’re the only one I’ve ever told that story to. No one knows. Not even my mom. I think she would die if she ever found out.”

  “Why do you think he lied to me?” I ask.

  “Would you have agreed to marry him i
f you knew the truth?”

  I think about his question for a long moment. “I’m not sure. Does that sound bad?”

  “It sounds honest.”

  We both look at each other. “Are you sure you don’t want any pizza?”

  I hold up my half-empty bottle. “I’ll stick with the beer.”

  As he rises from the table he grabs the remainder of the pizza, the paper plates and napkins and throws everything into the garbage can.

  “Let’s sit in the living room. We can finish our beers in there.”

  I follow him into the living room and sit down on a lumpy, old easy chair. Fisher takes a seat on the dated, pastel blue couch.

  “You don’t have a television,” I note as I look around the bare room. It’s the complete opposite of his mother’s packed place.

  “It’s a time suck.”

  “Finally something upon which we agree. So what do you do for fun? You do have fun, don’t you?”

  “When I’m not working, which isn’t very often, or when I’m not watching Jackson, I generally hang out at Haymakers, the local bar. Shoot the shit with some of the regulars. Or listen to some country music when they have a band playing.”

  “I’ve never been a big fan of country music,” I admit.

  “Have you ever listened to a live band play at a small bar?”

  “I can’t recall ever being in a place that could be called a small bar. And I’ve definitely never heard a live band play country music.”

  “You have no idea what you’re missing. I’m going to take you. Tomorrow night.”

  “I like how you assume that I don’t have any other plans.”

  He presses his lips together. “What other plans do you have in Old Town?”

  “I brought some of my textbooks with me. To study.”

  “And we’ve figured out why your suitcase is so heavy. You’re really going to study?”

  I heave a sigh. “Probably not.”

  “Good. I’ll show you what a good time in Old Town is like.”

  I roll my eyes. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Don’t criticize it until you’ve at least given it a chance.”

  “I will try to keep an open mind,” I promise. “How’s that?”

  “It’s a step in the right direction. When you’re done with your beer I can show you the guest room.”

  I chug what’s left in my bottle. “Sounds great.”

  The guest room has a single bed with superhero bedding and the only decorations scattered about the room are action figures. “I guess this is where Jackson sleeps.”

  “Sometimes my mom has company or when she just needs a break from being grandma. Those are the nights he stays with me.”

  “It sounds like he stays with you and your mom a lot.”

  “Now we’re the only family he’s got. Olivia did her best with him, but she worked a lot. She was in guest services up at the Tawnee Mountain Resort. It was a 24-7 gig. She worked a lot of night shifts. So my mom had Jackson a lot.”

  “What about her mom and dad?”

  He shakes his head. “They were out of the picture. They didn’t think she should keep Jackson. They told her they won’t help her out. Not that they would have been much help anyway. Olivia practically had to raise herself.”

  “I think it’s funny that you feel too young to get married, but you don’t have any issues with helping to raise a three-year-old nephew.”

  “Someone has to be his dad. It’s not like Franklin was here to fill the role.”

  There’s always a little bit of underlying tension in Fisher’s voice whenever he talks about his brother, but this is the first time he’s said something completely negative about him.

  “He never told me he wanted to be a father,” I admit. “Whenever we talked about our lives in the future, after we got married, he’d talk about building a law practice and having a big house in California like my parents. He talked about all of the places he wanted to travel. But he never mentioned kids or starting a family.”

  “I guess the world he was creating with you didn’t include any of us.”

  I stare at my engagement ring. “I feel like I didn’t really know him.”

  “I think you knew the person Franklin wanted to be.”

  As I plop my suitcase in the middle of the small bedroom I say, “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

  He laughs. “Don’t thank me until you’ve slept the night in that bed. I desperately need to buy a new mattress.”

  “I appreciate your generosity of spirit.”

  He laughs. “Generosity of spirit. That’s a first. Just knock on my bedroom door if you need anything.” Then his eyes catch mine and there’s a small spark between us. It happens so fast I wonder if I’m imagining it.

  Or maybe drinking the entire bottle of beer has made me a little tipsier than I think.

  “Good night.” He jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans and fidgets around a bit.

  “Sleep well,” I reply.

  “Okay then.” He sounds like he wants to say more, but refrains.

  When our eyes meet there’s another little spark between us. It’s just the hint of something, but it still seems to make us both uncomfortable.

  I open my mouth, but before I have a chance to say anything more he hurries out the door.

  It’s impossible for me to sleep. And not just because the mattress is old and lumpy and has the vague smell of dirty socks.

  My mind is racing. Did I really feel some kind of chemistry with Fisher? I realize he’s Franklin’s twin brother and they share DNA. But he’s a mechanic who by his own admission barely finished high school. Not the type of guy I would ever be attracted to. Of course Franklin wasn’t the person I thought he was either. He led a double life. And I only knew half of it.

  Maybe it’s just the shock. My emotions are all over the place, but they are also feeling dulled. I can't really grieve at the moment because I don't know who I was engaged to anymore. Franklin, everything I thought I knew about him, was a lie. But even so, I spent four years of my life with him. I loved him enough to want to marry him. Still, somehow that love feels like it's not real anymore. Am I just looking for something or someone to hold on to? Something to make me feel a little less... disconnected?

  I crawl out of bed and tiptoe past Fisher’s bedroom as quietly as I can and head into the living room.

  The place is eerily quiet. I guess I’m used to the constant bustle of California. At least in the places I’ve lived there wasn’t ever any absolute silence. There’s always some kind of noise in the background.

  Rural New Jersey in the middle of the night is dead calm. No people. No traffic. Not even an animal is making the slightest sound.

  I know it’s wrong, but I’m overcome with the desire to snoop around. I don’t want to admit that it’s not just because I need to know everything that Franklin was hiding. I’m also curious to know more about Fisher.

  He’s definitely not like any of the guys who went to my exclusive private high school. And he’s not like any of the guys I know from Stanford.

  I’ve never actually met anyone like Fisher before.

  He’s rugged and dirty and doesn’t seem to care one iota what anyone thinks of him. You can’t make it in Beverly Hills without caring what people think of you and you definitely can’t make it at Stanford. They’re two places in the world where status is everything.

  In Beverly Hills status is all about being wealthy and connected. And status at Stanford or Get Rich U as the New Yorker called it is a matter of how wealthy and connected and smart you are.

  The sparseness of Fisher’s living room is actually a little irritating. There’s not a lot there to snoop through. But when my eyes land on what looks like a scrapbook tucked away on the bottom of a nearly empty shelf I immediately gravitate toward it.

  Fisher doesn’t seem like the scrapbook kind of a guy and when I remove it from the shelf my stomach knots when I consider the probability that it was
created by a woman in his life.

  The front of the scrapbook says Senior Year Old Town High. I feel like a voyeur and I know I shouldn’t read it, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

  I open the cover.

  My heart sinks when the very first page is a gigantic heart and inside it reads: Fisher & Misty Forever.

  I wonder who Misty is and why she’s not here if they were supposed to be together forever.

  The scrapbook is a collection of memorabilia from high school. A Homecoming program. Photos from their senior class trip to an amusement park. All kinds of mementos from prom.

  My eyes finally land on a large eight by ten photo of Franklin and Fisher with their prom dates: Misty and Olivia, who according to the photo caption, are best friends forever.

  If ever there was a complete opposite to me, in looks anyway, it would certainly be Olivia. She had raven black hair, dark eyes and olive skin. She was also short. Even in heels she was significantly shorter than Franklin and one would definitely call her curvaceous.

  I rarely wore heels when I was with Franklin, because at five foot nine I was just barely shorter than him. I’m also rail thin and as fair as they come.

  I remember Sherry saying that Fisher liked dark-haired girls. Apparently Franklin did too because both Olivia and Misty are dark-haired beauties.

  It makes me wonder what Franklin was doing with me. Did he think marrying a blonde was like checking some kind of box on a form? Undergrad at Stanford. Check. Accepted to Harvard Law. Check. Wealthy and well-connected blonde fiancée. Check.

  I freeze when I hear rustling noises coming from the hallway. Talk about getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I briefly consider tossing the scrapbook on the couch, but then I’d have to explain how it got there. Probably better just to be caught with the evidence in my hands.

  And I kind of want to ask him questions about Olivia and Misty.

  “What are you doing up?” He wipes the sleep from his eyes.

  My jaw drops when I notice he’s naked except for his rather tight boxer briefs. And I discover another way in which he and Franklin differed. Franklin didn’t have time to work out. He was always too busy studying or fulfilling his duties as the President of one of many student organizations to which he belonged.