I've somehow lost myself already in the mere weeks I've been in college. Classes haven't even begun yet, so I don't think I can blame it on an identity crisis brought on by a philosophy course or sole searching after sampling a Tai Chi class.

Cal has called me almost every day, even inviting me to have dinner with him on the evenings he doesn't have practice. I assumed that meant cooking at his apartment, but each time he has mooched off my meal plan opting for campus style dining instead. Dinner with just the two of us has been abnormally nice. Easing towards being almost close enough to resemble what it used to look like and how we would act with one another. Slipping back into the easy sibling banter and taking an interest in the other's life.

Cal has apparently found himself in our short weeks on campus though. He's offered to look out for me, to take his role as my big brother seriously. How sweet of my dear brother to treat me like a child even though I am the exact same age as him. I'm actually two minutes older if we want to get into the technicalities.

The gesture quickly ends however, when each dinner begins to wind down. Each one has ended with an invitation to join him later in the evening, to tag along with whatever he and his friends are doing that night. His tagline is always the same, don't be boring! I would almost be proud of the ambush tactic, if it didn't leave me vulnerable and inevitably shaking my head in a no, while my mouth says yes. An internal war of no longer wanting to live up to my label of the boring one. Although, the negotiations always serve as a constant reminder that I'm the twin who can't regulate herself in social settings. Once again making me feel invisible to Cal, like my history isn't there. That my problems should just be ignored and move on as if nothing happened to make me feel this way in the first place.

🏈🏈🏈

I snuck in behind a group of guys leaving the building as I was attempting to enter. I moved so quickly I'm not sure they even realized I had passed them. But now that I stand in front of Callan's door, I wish one of them would have. To have someone to identify me if I somehow go missing after this. I need someone to see my picture on the news and call in an anonymous tip. Yes I saw her on the evening of Saturday August 9th. I can't tell you what she was wearing, but I can tell you her resting bitch face was unforgettable!

I don't knock, instead I slip inside hopefully going unnoticed by anyone in attendance. Cal's living room looks the exact same way it has every time I've been here in the last few weeks. The faux leather couch is being pushed past its weight limit by at least twenty people in various stages of nudity and alcohol poisoning. Another slew of college students crowd around the makeshift beer pong table in the far left corner with the spectators spilling into and on the kitchen island.

Callan insisted I come tonight, selling me with the fact that the gathering was at his house and not somewhere unfamiliar. He and his friends have a rotating schedule of social events, all with the same basic agenda. Pregame at someone's house with the essentials: beer, music, and women and then go out to some bar or club.

I've taken him up on the offer approximately two times. Neither ending with me even remotely enjoying myself, and with Callan telling me to lighten up when his friends can't handle my jokes. He doesn't seem to understand when I protest that no one appreciates good comedic timing anymore. But being the masochist I am, I took little to no convincing to present myself here again tonight.

I push my way further into the apartment, slipping into Cal's room to grab a bottle of water out of his mini fridge. I don't want to chance a run in with any of his friends who try to force alcohol and themselves down my throat. Just as I can feel the magnet on the mini door click into place I can also feel the presence of someone else in the room.

"I don't get why you come if you just hide in my room," He says from behind me.

"I don't get why you invite me if you spend the whole night acting like I'm the Spanish Flu."

Cal narrows his eyes at me. He's part of the problem with no awareness of sarcasm, always forcing me to explain myself, "You evade me. Stay away from me," I explain and roll my eyes.

"I invited you. It's not my job to hold your hand and make sure you have fun."

I want to yell at him that I never expected that from him. Our relationship in recent years has been as much. He does the bare minimum in the field of brotherly duties. Driving me to and from obligations, leaving the toilet seat up in a shared bathroom, eating the last of my cereal and then denying it. But when it comes to commiserating in familial drama and shortcomings we don't share the same perspective, we haven't in a while. Callan is a good brother, until you actually need him to be a brother.

"Let me just go offer to do a body shot off of someone." I smirk and shoulder past him with my bottle of water tucked underneath my arm. The living room population has somehow doubled, leaving the air thick with pungent smells and oxygen deprived. I squeeze my way through, holding my breath until I reach the screen door to the patio.

The night air has cooled, a reminder that summer is almost over. Plopping down into an iron patio chair, I prop my legs up onto the railing opposite me and pull out a pack of cigarettes I bought on the way over. I don't really enjoy smoking, but it gives me an excuse to come out here. To be a part of the party without actually being a part of the party. I'm no better than someone who picks up smoking just to have an excuse to take extra breaks at work.

The door slides open again, a single set of footsteps sounding beside me. I pull out my phone and begin doom scrolling Instagram to avoid a conversation with the person who owns the feet. The person mumbles something to themselves. But I realize they're on the phone, talking in hushed tones.

I take another drag watching the way the tip lights up, becoming the only brightness in the otherwise darkness that surrounds me.

"Can I bum one?" The person says pointing to the cigarette between my fingers. I pull the pack off my lap, pop the top and extend them to him.

He's now taken a seat in the matching patio chair, pulling it closer to me so I can see his face. I instinctively turn my head to look at him. Son of a bitch, I think.

"A light?" he asks. I want to ask if he needs me to wipe his ass too, but refrain.

"You're Nine's sister?" the cowboy asks with the cigarette between his lips.

When I don't say anything he continues, "Lives here, blondish hair like you," he says pointing to my hair. When I still don't bite he continues, "Callan? You're Callan's sister?"

"So he finally claims me, huh?" I retort, returning the cigarette to my mouth to take another long drag.

"You guys kinda look like. Like twins or something."

"Well look at you Special Agent Hotchner."

"I would prefer a white Derek Morgan."

I literally choke on my spit and gasp for air. I wasn't expecting him to understand a reference to a TV show I assumed only middle aged housewives watched. Or in my case, when it's the only thing played on repeat in the facility.

"Who knew they had TV on the farm?" I smirk in his direction.

The cowboy smirks back, his cigarette hanging sideways out of his mouth. He slides it between two fingers, pulling it away from his mouth and resting his hand on his knee. He doesn't turn his head in my direction. As he exhales a cloud of smoke encases his words.

"I'm from Texas, not an uncivilized village."

"Uncivilized? That's a big word for someone with your amount of brain cells," I say.

I drop the butt on my cigarette into an empty beer can between our two seats and immediately light another one. Chain smoking isn't my finest quality, but the buzz loosens me up enough to not care so much about being here.

I glance over at the cowboy to find him watching me. His eyes never leave me as he lifts a beer bottle to his lips, taking a long swig, His Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. I can barely make out his features in the dim light but his eyes could cut through smoke, literally doing so through the clouds that surround us. The side of his mouth pulls into a smirk taking his eyebrow with it.

I don't like to drink because it's too easy to push it too far, to lose control. And it's when I lose control that I have trouble reeling it back in. But I'm overcome with the need to take a sip of his beer. I point to it, "Mind if I bum a sip?" He hands me the bottle with a little more than a sip left. He notes for me to finish it. I thank him with a nod and put the bottle to my lips and it's still warm from his. I open my mouth slightly and welcome the cool crisp taste to fill it. I swallow hard, glancing towards him as I do. His eyes haven't left mine. The corner of his mouth pulled to the side. I wonder if he recognizes me now, too. If he's put two and two together. I want to ask him if he's okay. But if he won't say anything, neither will I.

The glass door slides open again, bringing a brunette with painted on shorts and a hot pink silk top floating out. "Taylor!" she whines, "You left me!" Her sandals click off her feet as she closes the space between her and the cowboy, I now know is named Taylor. In one swift movement her ass is in his lap, her arms slung around his neck and her feet are dangling next to his.

I stare back into the distance giving them their privacy, putting out my second and lighting my third cigarette in a matter of minutes. I count to seven, not able to make it all the way to ten before I chance a glance back in their direction. The girl hasn't stopped talking since she stepped out here. It's probably why Taylor left her in the first place, but he hasn't spoken a word since giving me the first bit of information about himself.

I allow my head to turn first, my eyes still fixed down on the ground. When I do finally raise them, his are still on me and that damn smirk is still perfectly in place on his lips.