Cheated

“Avery?” Grandma’s voice drifted toward me from somewhere deeper in the house, and fifty years in Canada had not dimmed the rich tones and accent of her Cuban ancestry. “You are going to be late.” She should talk about being late when she functioned on her own schedule, and I was usually the one reminding her of the time; I thought with a smirk, but my smile faltered as I stared down at my laptop and the two faces looking just like mine. Usually, I dyed my hair a rich blond while their sleek dark tresses brought out the blueish-green of their eyes, a gift from both our parents. Today, though, my hair was the same rich chocolate as theirs for the first time since I turned twelve. I snapped the brushed silver of my laptop’s lid shut, pushing it across my duvet’s earthy brown and beige tones toward my half-packed suitcase. My reluctance to go on this trip didn’t just stem from my nervousness at meeting my eccentric new client but from my unwillingness to go to California with Kayla and Erick. People in our town have not seen me as I look now and never made the connection, but in LA, people would notice my uncanny resemblance to the Collins twins. How could a change of hair colour make such a difference? I got to my feet, unwilling to think of the past, as I smoothed my bedding before putting the last few items in my suitcase and snapping the lid shut as I took inventory of my room. The bright warm colours created a cosy atmosphere I’d miss for the next three months. This was the part of my job I didn’t like—leaving home. I had to go to my clients and immerse myself in their lives and dramas to get to the root of their problems and steer their author careers back on track. Sometimes we had to alter their entire approach to writing. People didn’t enjoy asking for help, and when they became desperate enough to ask for it, they were sometimes as reluctant to accept it. “Are you ready?” Marguerite asked, and as I took in her ageless beauty, that dark gaze settled on me with worry. Only my oldest sister, Dr. Joanne Collins, inherited her eyes, but she had dark blond hair. “I don’t know if I should visit California and risk someone spotting me,” I said as we walked over the hardwood floors covered in thick carpet. “The twins are at VidCon in Australia. If someone does spot you, they will just assume you are a doppelgänger, and there’s no need to be so paranoid. If no one here recognized you in twenty-six years, no one will. With all the gunk they put on their faces, they look so different sometimes that I don’t recognize them when we’re supposed to meet somewhere.” “No one recognized me when I was blond. Why must this Barbara Shetland be so eccentric? What does it matter if I dye my hair? It doesn’t make me any less good at my job, and I know she inspired you to write your first novel, but this is a bit much. That nondisclosure contract was thicker than the bible.” “To have someone like her on your resume would give you a clout that can’t be bought, Avery. She insists on ‘authenticity’ with people, and this will be a great experience for you.” “Marguerite Ronan’s on my resume, and I have been editing your books since I was fifteen. It took me years to get where I am and do it discreetly not to mess up Mom’s life. Why do I have to take this lady’s crap?” She frowned at me. “Why are you suddenly backtracking? What happened since last night? Have you been watching those damned YouTube videos again? You are incredible and don’t have to be a famous YouTuber to be amazing.” She touched my cheek as always when she wanted to soothe me. “Stop comparing yourself to them. You don’t enjoy being the centre of attention, you studied hard, and you are good with people. Barbara Shetland is just another author who needs help. You’ve got this.” My grandmother wasn’t qualified to be impartial; she raised me since I was a baby, and it wasn’t easy with me being so sick. With us in Canada and the rest of our family in LA, Marguerite was my world, and I could not ask for a more incredible parent. That didn’t mean I didn’t wonder what it would have been like to grow up with my four sisters and brother. Marguerite and I have always been close, unlike her and Shannon, my mother. They were both so passionate and headstrong that they constantly locked horns over the years. Although my grandmother often travelled to promote her books, we got to spend loads of time together when she was home, and Kayla’s mom always looked after me when Marguerite had to fulfil her obligations. My grandmother had been my best friend for most of my life, and I loved that about our relationship. With her being an intensely private person, she successfully kept me out of the limelight to accommodate my shyness and our secret. I sometimes thought that half the allure she had with her fans came from her being so mysterious and exotic. Her shrewdness gave me an everyday life, and I was grateful for it. My friends were not so ordinary, but they respected my wish for privacy. Kayla had become a very sought-after photographer in the last few years with a YouTube channel of her own, and Erick, who grew up with his father in Australia, was a famous surfer. Yet, despite our closeness, neither of them knew who I really was, and the one time Kayla mentioned my resemblance to the Collins twins, I lied right to her face. I don’t even understand why I did it, she would never tell my secret, but Erick was the reason people say, “loose lips sink ships.” Or he was when he was younger. “Kayla called earlier. She said the book launch is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and Erick is like a toddler the day before Christmas.” I smirked. With his blond Adonis looks, I could imagine Erick acting like a five-year-old on a sugar high while his dark-haired sister tried to contain and control him. They were such opposites, and although Erick and I were not friends at first, he became part of my life like a little brother. Kayla filled the void left by my family over the years, and we met when she moved to Canada with her mom when I was twelve. She got me to climb out of my shell, and we were instant friends. The taxi stopped, and we loaded my bags. This would be the first vacation I took without Marguerite, and it felt wrong, like the end of an era. A tiny frown tugged at my brow. “Stop that; you’ll get wrinkles.” Marguerite smoothed my forehead with her finger as she did when I was little, and I hugged her. We clung to each other as we always did. “I’m going to miss you,” I said, taking in the fruity smell of her hair, her subtle but exotic perfume, and the fresh linen scent of her clothes. These were the aromas of home to me, and for some reason, they brought tears to my eyes as if we were saying goodbye. “Pull yourself together, Avery Ronan. We will see each other soon enough, and I am going to Spain for a holiday, not forever.” She always caught onto my moods like this. “Don’t do anything I won’t.” She laughed as she always did. “Then I will have no fun,” she said, sounding like my favourite Cuban American actress, who was an old friend of hers back in the day and knowing it. As the car drove off, I watched her get smaller and smaller. Was it my imagination, or did she seem less vivacious than always and a little... forlorn as she waved at me.