Twin Teslas

Jacob names the things found in the toolshed, where our sister was last seen:

ㅤㅤ⁃ㅤa Now and Later wrapper (strawberry-kiwi)
ㅤㅤ⁃ㅤan orange highlighter
ㅤㅤ⁃ㅤa rubber-duckie hairbow
ㅤㅤ⁃ㅤa book titled If I Was Princess of the Rain…

“And a passport photo of a girl, around Danielle’s age,” he says. “A girl who was never identified.”

Recounting these items calms him. Our secret hymn.

The plane levels into its cruising altitude. Jacob hates takeoffs the most. That’s why he needs me there whenever he flies.

“Strange they never figured out who she was.”

I tap his knee and get up from my seat.

In the bathroom, I take a mirror selfie. One that says: I am in the air. I am traveling. Maybe I should be shirtless. That sweet spot between sexy and stupid. I pull off my polo and flex. The knob rattles. I ignore it and zoom in on my last picture. The fluorescent light bleaches me out. I look like a stowaway, afflicted with scurvy.

On the descent, we hit turbulence. Jacob pulls at the hair on my forearm.

“Imagine we’re stuck between two sheets of jelly,” I tell him. “That’s all this is. Thick air, holding us tight.”

A duty-free tote falls from overhead. Cans of Coke Zero roll down the aisle. I close my eyes and try to meditate.

I bow down to you. I bow down to you. I bow down to you.

When we land, I delete the shirtless pics.

*

Our rental car dings every time we go past the speed limit. There’s no way to turn it off. Part of some new safety initiative.

“Fuck the EU,” I say, toying with the gearshift. “Dead-end nanny state.” I don’t know what I mean. Jacob nods anyway. An ad for an Armin van Buuren residency loops around the rotary.

We stop to see Jacob’s client, the john who flew us out here. I pet his Italian greyhound on the veranda. It trembles in the sun. A maid tells me her name is Doja Cat.

The man greets Jacob with three air-kisses. He’s six-foot-seven and Scandinavian. They walk off to a bungalow.

“Does your brother want to join us?”

“No, no.” Jacob takes a long drag from his cigarette. He only smokes when he’s in character. “He’s way too jetlagged.”

While I wait for them to finish, I sink into a chaise lounge and call our dad.

He tells me about his new girlfriend. A Chinese immigrant with two adult daughters. Both identify as asexual. I ask if he’d rather have two gay sons or two ace daughters. He laughs but doesn’t answer.

“Where are you?” he asks. “I hear waves.”

I lie and say I’m at the pier.

He tells me he loves me. And to take good care of my brother. His new phone sign-off, ever since Mom died.

*

At the hotel, a neon sign is mounted above our bed. It reads Oh My Days… in pink cursive. Families from Rotterdam and Manchester spread out by the dunk pool. A blonde DJ plays afrobeats under a cabana.

I think of the British boy who vanished in Gran Canaria. His bowl cut was in every tabloid. Mother and father suspected, then cleared by DNA. A Portuguese burglar became the new suspect.

Our parents were never cast as villains. They had an alibi: running the raffle at the church fundraiser. My brother and I weren’t as lucky. We’d left Danielle alone downstairs to play MapleStory on the family computer. The local news thought we did it. Our mother half-agreed.

I don’t believe anger curdles into cancer. But some events rhyme in a way you can’t ignore.

When Mom was transferred to hospice, I sought forgiveness.

“Squeeze if you want coffee ice cream,” I said. She gripped my finger hard.

“Okay, now squeeze if you forgive Jacob and me. For everything.”

At this, she pulled away and screamed—the universal signal for more morphine. A nurse rushed in and told me to wait outside.

*

At dinner, Jacob doesn’t touch our shared paella. He just sucks his cheeks hollow and chews on his tongue. After a job, he gets like this. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t eat. Like a luna moth born without a functioning mouth. His lips pretty, but useless.

“Have a drink with me,” I say.

He gestures toward his empty glass.

“You shouldn’t do this kind of work if it makes you so sad. It’s not like we’re destitute.”

“I don’t want Dad’s blood money,” he says. The two of them haven’t spoken since Mom’s funeral. I’m not sure why. A vague “lifestyle disagreement.”

I pour the last of the cava into his tumbler. “Then at least learn to enjoy your hustle.”

He flicks his lighter on and off. “I’ll feel better at the club.”

*

We wait for the valet in the lobby.

Two girls play billiards in the Kidz Zone, their ponytails wet and chlorinated.

Danielle was never declared dead, on our mother’s insistence. She’d be about fifteen now. But I can’t stand the age-progression photos. “Let her stay young,” I’d tell my parents. “Can’t we at least give her that?”

One of the girls climbs onto the table, blocking the pockets with her hands and feet. Her friend flings an eight ball at her toes. They shriek at each other in Dutch.

Jacob presses his thumb on my sunburnt shoulder. “Car’s here.”

*

In the bathroom line at the club, a dewy woman tells me Ibiza isn’t meant for gay guys. “Not being homophobic. Just practical,” she says. “It’s like how Love Island only works with straight couples.”

I admit she’s not wrong.

Back in VIP, Jacob watches a man tug a girl’s belly-button ring with his teeth.

“I don’t think my guy is coming,” he says. “But that dude over there gave me ecstasy.”

He opens his palm: two pressed pills, shaped like the Tesla logo.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s party.”

A Kaskade song we listened to in carpool starts playing. Jacob sings in my ear: And I’m half past making sense of it … was I wrong? His voice has an MDMA drawl to it.

An easyJet flies low over the open roof. I let my head fall against Jacob’s shoulder. He smells like the hotel’s bergamot lotion.

Two boys with middle parts throw up heart-hands at us. They think Jacob and I are a couple. Love wins, I guess.

*

I walk along the beach road, searching for our rental. Jacob sprints past me and toward the water, stripping naked as he goes.

For over a minute I wait on the shoreline. No sign of him. Pre-puke saliva pools in my throat.

“Jacob!”

It’s nearly sunrise. The sea is still black. I wade in and let the current pull me under.

I think of what they’d find in my jean pockets: Nasal spray. Turkish chewing gum. A vial of my mom’s ashes. An empty baggie.

But no, we’ve missed our chance to disappear. Danielle’s off-ramp is closed to us. Our absence would be met with a shrug. Two adult siblings, on an illicit trip—no newspaper would run our pictures. The story would never stick. Our only option was to remain. To stay present and accounted for.

I stand upright, finding the water shallow. Jacob floats five feet away, face-up.

“The warm Mediterranean,” he whispers. “White foam. Pink clouds.”

I slip my arms under him. His face is slack, pupils dilated. A baby in the bath.

“You good?”

“I’m just confirming the world. So I can get my bearings.” He studies his pruned palm in the morning light and turns to me. “My hand?”

“No,” I tell him. “Our hand.”

____
Ryan D. Petersen lives in New York City. His work has been published in Forever Mag and Hobart.