Chapter One

Amelia

“I need you to pretend to be me next weekend.”

I stop eating, fork poised above my plate. “Why?”

“I have two dates on the same night—oops.” My twin sister says it in a duh tone of voice, like it should have been obvious.

“No.”

“Please? Come on! It’ll be fun.”

“No.” I ignore the whining tone in her voice, the one that rises a few decibels every time she speaks. “Pretending to be someone else isn’t fun for me—it’s stressful.”

“You’re no fun.”

I laugh. “Exactly my point. If I had to spend an entire night faking it, I would pass out from exhaustion.”

“Maybe, but Dash is so hot, you won’t even care.”

“Is that supposed to be a selling point? This guy you’re dating is hot?” I shove lettuce in my mouth and chew. Swallow. “Lucy, we look nothing alike.”

Okay, so that’s not exactly true. We’re almost identical, I just hate admitting it.

“He doesn’t know I’m a twin. Trust me, he won’t notice.”

This gives me pause. “How does he not know you’re a twin?”

“I mean, it’s not like we sit and talk about you,” she quips.

“Right, but don’t you tell him about yourself? Normally you love to talk, and the twin thing is kind of a fun fact.” And a huge part of who you are as a human being, I want to add, but instead, I clamp my lips shut.

“Of course I tell him about myself. I tell him my favorite foods so if he ever decides to take me to dinner he’ll know what I like, and I tell him my favorite movies so he’s prepared in the event that we go to one. I also show him my best side when I’m taking selfies.”

How are we related?

She twirls her hair. “But we’ve only gone out like, twice—I don’t count seeing him at house parties and stuff. He’s kind of annoying though, always trying to have deep, meaningful discussions.”

My face contorts. “Why would you have a problem with that?”

“Oh my God, Amelia, it’s not like we can have a serious talk in the middle of a party.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“Dash Amado.”

I chuckle into my espresso. “Luce, I hate sounding like an ass, but how deep a discussion could a guy named Dash possibly want to have?”

“That’s kind of a bitchy thing to say. You don’t even know him.” She blows out a puff of air. “Besides, I don’t think that’s his real name.”

I slurp my water to annoy her.

It works.

“How about you try harder to get to know him?”

“I’m trying, but you won’t help me!”

“Far be it from me to judge, but methinks you’re not trying hard enough. Stop trying to make me your stand-in.”

“For the tenth time, he won’t even know it’s you.”

“I am not going on this date for you! It was cute trading places in high school, but it’s not cute now.” Not to mention, it’s immature.

“You used to think it was fun.”

“Remember the time we both ran for student council? It was exhausting and embarrassing and the whole mess was completely your fault.”

“What are you even talking about? The whole thing was not a mess—everything turned out great! We both got elected.”

When we were freshmen in high school, Lucy and I were both running for class officer—president for her, vice president for me. The election speeches were during an assembly during the school day, but rather than showing up, Lucy spent the entire period making out with some football player in a supply closet they’d found unlocked en route to the gymnasium.

In a panic—because I was always so freaking responsible—I tried covering for her. Pulled a speech out of my ass, gave it in front of the entire student body, then borrowed a shirt from our friend Clarissa, changed, came back as me to give a speech for myself.

It was exhausting, and the entire time, she was shut in a closet kissing some boy.

My sister gives me a dull look over the rim of her glass, waving her hand in the air dismissively.

“Amelia, that happened five years ago, or whatever the math is. Why do you keep bringing it up? We were in high school.”

“I keep bringing it up because I was terrified we were going to get caught! Just like I am now!”

“You’re so dramatic. We both won, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

“The problem is, you’re always doing this. Remember that time I dressed up as you to meet Kevin Richards at the movies so you could go do God knows what with Dusty Sanders? The entire movie Kevin kept trying to put his hand on my thigh because you’d let him get to third base the night before.”

“And you whacked him in the balls,” she deadpans dryly. “Yeah, who could forget that?”

“Whatever,” I mumble. “He had it coming.”

“Can we focus on Dash here, please?”

“We are twenty-one years old—don’t you think we’re a little old to be pulling tricks on people?”

“Um, no? There’s a reason God gave us the same face.”

That makes me laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me, don’t you?” She bats her sooty lashes. “You’re totally going to help me out—I can tell by the look on your face.”

“What look?” I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I have a look?”

My sister claps her hands, excited. “Yes, you totally do, and you’re totally doing this for me!” She lifts her brows and quirks the corner of her mouth into a cocky grin that mirrors the one I have on my face right now.

Shit. She’s right.

My twin leans in, hands folded on the table like she’s just entered negotiations in a business meeting.

“What’s it going to take for you to help me out?”

I mimic her pose. “I don’t know, Lucy. You tell me—what’s my time worth to you?”

She stares for a few long moments, lost in thought, trying to measure my sincerity through narrowed eyes. She’s trying to gauge if I’m being flippant or sincere about helping her. The thing about my sister is that everything always come so easy for her. She’s beautiful and relies heavily on her looks, uses them to her advantage. She’s outgoing and uses that, too.

Not that I’m not—I’m all of those things, but I’m not a user.

My sister is.

She doesn’t do it on purpose; she just…wants what she wants, when she wants it.

Lucy isn’t mean or malicious, goodness no, nor has she ever stood in the way of me being happy. She’s never pulled any deviant twin crap or made me feel bad about our differences.

She’s just…Lucy.

When I continue eating my salad and ignoring her hard stares, she sighs loudly, resigned. Pushes a carrot around its plastic container and sighs again.

Drama is my twin sister’s middle name.

Her hair is too big, her lips are too red, and her personality is too wild.

Around campus, in certain circles, we’re called the Barbie twins. It’s not because we have blonde hair—which we don’t—but because of Lucy’s bombshell appearance. We’re tall and slender with thick, wavy hair. My sister has hers shorter by a few inches, layered around her face, and it’s a rich chestnut color. Mine is longer and darker.

“What’s your time worth to me? I’ll buy you an extra gift at Christmas—”

“Which Mom and Dad will pay for.”

She sighs at me a third time, this one ending with a little drawn-out groan.

I throw her a bone, rolling my eyes. “So what’s up with this guy—what does a Dash person do?”

This opening perks her up considerably, and she immediately sits up in her seat, enthusiastic. “He’s on the baseball team—the catcher.”

“The catcher, ooh la la! Exciting.” I’m such a sarcastic jerk sometimes. “And why are you saying the word catcher like that, all whispery?” My head gives a shake. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”