Sweet Ache

“Does she’s with me have a name?”

“Trixie,” Hawkin states, beating me to the punch when I was going to give my real one. And then I wonder why he’s giving his own brother my fake name but in the same breath I’m glad he does.

“Trixie.” Hunter rolls the false name around on his tongue before nodding in acceptance. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Hawkin’s sigh is audible and his voice monotone when he speaks. “Trixie, this is my brother, Hunter…. Hunter, this is Trixie. Satisfied?”

“Very,” he murmurs, eyes finding mine again and I have no problem being the first to look away this time as he takes a step closer. “So Trix—”

“What do you want, Hunter? If you wanted to be here, I know a surefire way you could be.” The derision in Hawke’s voice is frigid.

“Testy, testy. Do you let him talk to you like this?” Hunter directs the question at me, and it’s more than obvious he’s enjoying taunting his brother.

“Answer my question, Hunt.” Hawkin’s tone tells me he’s had enough of whatever game his twin is playing. I just wish I knew what exactly it was.

“I need to borrow your car.”

Hawkin physically startles at Hunter’s request. “You have your own.”

“It’s in the shop. Besides”—Hunter shrugs, completely unapologetic—“I like yours better.”

“You always like mine better.”

“Yes, I do,” he drawls the words out, a predatory gleam in his eye as he glances my way, “since you seem to enjoy taking what I deserve.”

“Cut the crap,” Hawkin orders, authority resonating in his voice as it echoes around the empty theater. “Why do you need it?”

“Mine’s in the shop so—”

“So you thought you’d trek halfway across town to a place you’d never go otherwise to ask me for my car? Ever heard of a taxi? Kind of presumptuous to just assume I’d hand it over, dontcha think?”

From the way they glare at each other—testosterone mixed with what I can guess is familial bad blood—I can’t help but wonder what else they are speaking about because it sure as hell isn’t a car.

“You’d do anything for family, isn’t that right?” Hunter angles his head at his brother, lips pursed, attitude prevalent.

“Try me again. Seems my generosity is running thin.” Hawke’s body vibrates with anger.

“Hmm.” Hunter laughs, the sound in itself mocking. The two spitting images stare each other down, animosity and irritation dueling between them. “Mom needs me.”

The simple statement causes everything about Hawkin to immediately alter despite the cocky raise of Hunter’s eyebrows that says, see, I told you, you’d bend for me. His shoulders fall and he glances back my way for a split second, indecision mixed with concern marring his face, before walking closer to his brother. “She okay?” he asks in a hushed whisper, his back toward me now.

I can’t hear the rest of what is said, just bits and pieces that don’t make sense as Hawkin digs in his pocket for his car keys and hands them over. He gives him some sort of instructions, and then puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

The mirror images look at each other for a prolonged period of silence before Hunter nods his head and walks out. The students, in line waiting for the lecture to start, call out “Hawkin”—mistaking Hunter for his brother—as the door shuts behind him.

I study the lines of Hawkin’s back as he watches his brother’s movements outside, shaking hands, posing for cell phone pictures … acting as if he is his twin. It vaguely crosses my mind to wonder how often he does this, impersonates his brother. I turn my focus back to the man himself. His demeanor seems altered now, so far from the arrogant, self-assured man from earlier or the clips I’ve seen of him performing. A part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, figure out what can affect him so quickly, but I also understand that I know absolutely nothing about him besides the image he feeds to the media.

And growing up in a household under the scrutiny of the Hollywood magnifying glass, I know better than most how image can be a manufactured product.

Standing here beside Hawkin I can feel his angst, sense his restlessness, and I want to know more. Every person has two sides, the side they let everyone believe and the side they let few see. Usually I couldn’t care less because each person deserves their own story, but for some reason with Hawkin, I want to see that private side. The man has been making me question my own sanity with the reactions he’s pulling from me. Maybe the rest of his story will explain why I respond so strongly to him.

His audible sigh pulls me from my thoughts. “Everything okay?” I can’t help it. I know he won’t answer, but I have to ask anyway.

“Fucking stellar,” he snaps, and then hangs his head with a self-deprecating groan. When he turns and faces me, I can see the lines etched in the sculpted perfection of his face, the remorse in his eyes that melts my heart. “Sorry, I just …” His voice trails off as we stare at each other. Just when he’s about to explain, Axe pushes open the door and peeks his head in.

“You ready for them, Hawke?”

Hawkin holds my gaze for a second longer, relief flickering that he doesn’t have to explain further, before glancing over to Axe. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

He walks past me and down the steps to the podium without another word. Students file in and do a double take when they take their seats and realize the imposter outside was not really him. You can hear the hushed buzz grow louder until Hawke clears his throat and a hush falls over the room. When he begins to speak, the students hang on his every word.