Penelope

I didn't think I'd be spending the first day of October in the waiting room at a clinic in Kelowna. Before Patrick revealed the truth, Cassian and I had been planning on visiting a pumpkin patch and then a haunted corn maze at O'Keefe Ranch in Vernon. We've rescheduled that, but I'm regretting it. I should have pushed the DNA test back further.

I continue to tap my foot against the white tile. I can't sit still. The surrounding posters of flu shots and what smoking does to your lungs, tied with the antiseptic smell, are intimidating. It's also cold in here—you'd think by now they would've turned on the heat.

"Penelope," Patrick murmurs, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Calm down. Your knee is bobbing up and down so fast it's giving me whiplash."

"How do these tests work?" I ask, spinning in my seat. I'm face-to-face with Patrick, and even though I've come to terms with him being my brother, the similarities between us still shock me. "Do they draw blood?"

"From what I read," Patrick begins, "they take a swab from your cheek." He's quick to clarify he means with saliva.

I cock an eyebrow. "That's it?" He must be lying to calm me down. There's no way a DNA test is that easy. No way. It makes little sense how something so important could be done via saliva. "You're lying to me. They're going to take blood. Patrick, I'm going to lose my mind. I don't like needles." I slump in my uncomfortable chair and cross my arms. "Sedating me will be their only option."

"Isn't it funny how both our names start with a 'P'?" he asks, changing the subject. There's a small crease between his brows. "It's like fate knew Penelope should have been your name from the beginning. I don't know what Mom and Dad were thinking with Jules." His face pales and he tries to retract his sentence. "I didn't mean any offense, Penelope. If you like the name Jules—"

I interrupt a sigh of relief. "You don't like the name Jules, either?"

He cocks his head to the side and stares at me in question before realizing what I mean. "No," Patrick laughs. "I mean, I will not go around judging people who have that name—some people can pull it off—but I wouldn't name my kid Jules." He pauses, glancing at the front desk. The line up at the clinic has gotten bigger, and it makes me uncomfortable we're getting our DNA tested in the same place where people get tested for STDs. I glance at Patrick. I hope people don't get the wrong idea by looking at us. Concerns aside, it's comforting to see Patrick so anxious. It makes me feel less like an outsider.

"Do you go by any nicknames?" he asks.

When I don't respond, Patrick sighs and rubs his temples. "I'm sorry," he says. I track the movement of his eyes, taking in our surroundings. Over in the far corner, there's a play area for kids. Two kids are playing with toys from the nineties. To our right, there's a teenage couple, looking young and in love. I avert my gaze right away. It isn't hard to tell why they're here.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "Having a sibling is new to me. I don't know where to draw the line for asking questions and gaining information."

"Cassian calls me Pen," I reply, smiling at my brother. "Mom and Dad call me Ellie. Jake and Gemma will sometimes call me Nell or use my full name. One of my friends in high school tried to call me Penny, but I shut that one down. So, here's a fair warning: Don't call me Penny."

"Noted," he chuckles.

"What about you?"

He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his curly blond locks. "Pat, Patty, Patch—the usual, cliché ones. Nothing special. Are you going to tell your parents?"

A small smile curves my lips and I stare ahead at the plants bracketing the front desk. I don't know what they are, but they give the clinic a nice homey touch. I've been spending more time with Patrick, so I've picked up on a few traits. For starters, he's blatant with his questions and opinions—look at our exchange that happened by the lake. Patrick also likes to be observant and point out things that aren't necessarily obvious.

I pick at a rip in the plastic coating the foamy padding of my seat. It's red and peels away easily. My parents have been asking about my relationship with Patrick since the family barbecue. I had to alter the truth. I told them we broke up on good terms. After everything that's happened with Mom, I'm scared to tell them the truth about Patrick being my brother. I also don't want to disappoint them. The Penelope they know would have jumped on the opportunity to meet her parents. But the circumstances changed as soon as I learned they kept Patrick and not me. I have to be careful about my decision to meet my biological parents. There has to be a reason. They didn't just give me up for adoption because they didn't want a girl.

"I don't know," I admit, picking at the plastic again. "When I told Mom I was looking for my biological parents, she didn't take well to the news. She felt like I disregarded all the effort they put in. They fed me, gave me a home, funded my education, and loved me. She's also worried my biological parents will reject me like they did when I was born." I glance at Patrick. "I don't mean to single out your—our parents, but it's difficult to not feel biased. And I hope you don't feel singled out, either. I want to tell them. I need to figure something out." I pause, grinning at him. "That's one difference between us: you prefer to spring the truth on people while I prefer to ease them into it.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I take no offence. Take your time."

"Penelope Montgomery and Patrick Collins?"

Our heads snap up to the entrance, where a lady with sleek black hair and is wearing a white coat stands, clipboard in hand. My stomach muscles clench. While Patrick climbs to his feet, I stay sitting, staring at the woman with the clipboard. I can't have my blood taken. I'm terrified of needles.

"Come on, Penelope," Patrick says, taking my hand. I push it away—people are staring at us, and I don't want them to think we're a couple. "We're not doing a blood test. There will be no needles."

I glance out the window to the busy streets of Kelowna and watch as several leaves tumble with the breeze. Now that October is upon us, the weather has shifted. I shake my head. I'm focusing on the weather to avoid focusing on what matters. Although I have a feeling I'm going to regret trusting Patrick, I stand up and nod. "Okay. But if you're lying to me, you're dead."

He raises his right hand. "Scout's honour."

With one more deep breath, Patrick and I follow the lady into the backroom. She guides us down a narrow hallway. It's white and the walls are patterned with scenic photos of the Okanagan. I rub my biceps as we stride down the hallway. My nerves are on edge and these stupid photos aren't helping.

"Dr. Walcott will be in within the next five minutes," she smiles, gesturing to the last door.

"Thank you," Patrick says. He opens the door and steps inside.

I follow, casting the lady a polite smile. It's the best I can do because of my nerves. All this time, I've been blaming my anxiety on my fear of needles. I'm scared of confirming all this. Once we do, it becomes reality instead of a dream-like experience. Our test results will lead to related decisions that will have to be made. Some of which will not be easy. Like meeting my parents, for example.

"Penelope," Patrick says. "What's wrong?"

I bring my thumbnail to my mouth and chew on it, sitting down on the small bed covered in tissue paper. It crackles beneath my weight. While I process my response, I glance around the small room. It's set up differently than a normal doctor's office. There is an examination table, eye chart, washing station, and lots of cupboards and posters, but the table in the corner is much larger. You would find it in a luxury hotel or a smaller conference room. The four chairs surrounding it are padded and covered in a patterned fabric.

Telling Patrick the truth is my best option, but I don't want to stress him out. He's already suffering from enough guilt over being the one they kept. I don't want to impose any more guilt upon him. I slide down from the examination table and sit down in the chair beside him. "I don't like hospitals or doctor's offices. And... this is crazy, hey? I'm glad we're doing this, but the shock hasn't worn off yet."

He snorts softly. "Yeah, I feel you. It's—"

We're interrupted by the door opening. When I look up, I see a man in his late sixties with white hair, a crooked nose, and a pair of thick-framed glasses. He's wearing a white coat and mint-green scrubs. A stethoscope hangs around his neck, knocking against the name tag that says Dr. Walcott. Once the door is closed, he glances down at his clipboard and nods. "Penelope and Patrick?"

"That's correct," I nod.

"Excellent," he replies, smiling at the both of us. "I'm in the right room."

Patrick and I stay silent while Dr. Walcott sits down and organizes his papers. He's brought several pamphlets with him about dealing with grief and shock, and what the timeline for our results will look like. He's also brought paperwork for us to fill out and a bill. While Canada has excellent healthcare, having your DNA tested to see if you're related isn't covered.

"Very well," he says, staring at us from behind his glasses. "We're here for a DNA test to see if you're siblings."

"Yes," Patrick nods.

I nod, my throat raw with anxiety. For the love of god, I hope there's no bloodwork that needs to be done.

"Okay," Dr. Walcott continues. "We're going to start this appointment off by reviewing the procedure first. I will elaborate on side effects and how to cope with them. We've had many siblings or paternal tests go awry in the past and create rifts between families and siblings. We like to provide our patients with information on how to battle those feelings. The best advice I can give you two is to keep an open mind. Don't let the shock and anger prevent you from finding peace."

I stifle an eye roll. I still battle with some shock and anger, but that doesn't mean I'm going to shove Patrick away. I had my moment to cry and curse the world. It's time to get to work.

"Thank you," Patrick begins, "for thinking about your patients that way. It's appreciated. We will keep that in mind."

Dr. Walcott sends him a genuine smile and then continues to go over the procedure. Patrick was correct—we need only a cheek swab for a DNA test. Blood tests work better for when a paternal test is being done or if someone wants a thorough examination of their genetic makeup. After that, they will send the swabs into a laboratory for testing. Our results are supposed to take seven to ten business days to return, give or take. We'll both receive phone calls, but our results will also be mailed in case they can't reach us. I have to give this company props—they're organized and precise. So far, I have no questions.

Just the lingering fear of my dream becoming reality. I don't know what's wrong with me. This only feels like a dream. After all these years of searching for roads and coming to dead ends each time, I've accidentally found my twin brother and, although I haven't met them yet, my biological parents. There's a whole line of descendants I have yet to meet. Some family members probably don't know about me. Why didn't they tell everyone? Why didn't they want me? Why does a picture of Patrick and I as newborns exist? Now that all my scientific questions have been answered, personal ones continue to appear.

"Are there questions?" Dr. Walcott asks.

Patrick and I exchange another glance, shaking our heads. "No," I reply. "You did an excellent job of explaining everything to us. Thank you."

"It's my job," the doctor smiles. He sets down his pen and stands up. "Who would like to go first?"

While he collects the tools he needs, Patrick and I argue over who should go first. Of course, he wants me to go first and I want him to go first.

"You need to," he urges, giving me a nudge. "I knew about you for ages. You deserve this moment."

"But you're the older sibling," I press. "Besides, I'd be more comfortable if you went first."

Patrick leans back and shakes his head of curls. "Nope. You're going first, Penelope. While you do that, I'll fill out the paperwork. Want to give me your medical card?"

The definitive tone of voice makes me realize the big brother has spoken. I press my lips into a flat line and glance at the examination table. I don't know why I have to sit on it when he's taking a swab of saliva from my cheek. It seems like wasted effort to me. But I don't protest. While Dr. Walcott is pulling on a pair of sterile gloves, I climb up onto the examination table. I don't know what it is about sitting on these, but whenever my feet swing and that vulnerable feeling returns, I feel like a child going in for their usual check up.

A minute later, Dr. Walcott appears in front of me.

I level my gaze with Dr. Walcott and cock an eyebrow. "Just a swab from my cheek?"

He exchanges a glance with Patrick, who rolls his eyes. "She's terrified of needles," my brother explains. He picks up a pen and begins jotting down information for the paperwork. "Assure her no needles will be used and everything will be okay."

Dr. Walcott chuckles. "Don't worry, Miss Montgomery. I can assure you no needles are being used." He holds up something that resembles a Q-Tip. "This is a cotton swab, and it's what I'm going to use."

He's talking to me like I'm a child, but I don't mind. I like the gentle, cooing voice compared to the rough one my old family doctor had. He sounded like a smoker and my usual check-ups were always uncomfortable. Four years ago, I switched to a female doctor to make appointments a little less awkward. "Okay," I reply, dropping my hands into my lap. Even if there are no needles, I don't like doctor's appointments. Their vibe is dreadful.

But I'm not backing out of this one. Although the concept of conformation scares me, it's something that's needed in this situation. There's no way to move forward unless problems are solved. Patrick and I are in for a rough patch, but I think we can manage. Somewhere along the lines, we're going to make decisions that will change everything. And I'm hoping we'll be ready to handle the consequences that come with them.

Damn, I wish Cassian were here to get my mind off of shit. He would notice I'm antsy and crack cheesy jokes or tease me about fearing needles. Then, after the appointment, he'd take me out for a drink and good old-fashioned nachos. We'd reminisce about the time Gemma and I kicked his ass at laser tag and how we both got drunk at their wedding. Hell, we'd even discuss how crazy the business trip that started it all was.

So when Dr. Walcott tells me to open my mouth, I follow his request and close my eyes, pretending I've got Cassian by my side.

Not only because that man is unpolished and can infuriate me and I still love him, but also because I'm looking forward to tonight when I arrive home. Although he has his date tonight and he'll want to blab about it all night, he's going to have so many questions to ask about Patrick and I. He'll push away his own interests to make sure I'm coping with the process.

"There we go," Dr. Walcott says. "All done."

I open my eyes. Huh. That wasn't so bad.

"Wasn't too bad, was it?" Patrick asks, standing up. He walks over to the edge of the examination table and gives me a bright smile. "Looks like I'm up. Want to finish the paperwork?"

"Sure," I nod, taking the pen from him.

As I trudge over to the table, I try not to let the looming worry affect me. But it's like a poison slowly seeping through my veins.

I don't know where these next few weeks will lead, but I hope there are no more abrupt twists or turns.