The Revelation of Light and Dark Page 2

  Of course, that’s more by circumstance than desire, as I pretty much live hand to mouth working as a coffee shop manager in an expensive city and am too poor to travel.

  I park in a garage two blocks from where I work. There’s a light mist—nothing that could actually be called rain—so I leave my umbrella tucked away as I move with the pedestrian crowd. It’s not enough to get my clothes wet, but the mist will wreak havoc on my hair.

  My dad always used to say, “Finley… if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life”.

  I know that to be true because I really love my job and never think it’s a burden in any way. I even get a little squeeze of fondness in my heart when the front door of the coffee shop comes into view.

  It’s called One Bean, and it’s the most amazing place ever.

  Recessed in between a pharmacy and a small branch bank on 6th Avenue, the exterior is a worn red brick. The front door is solid wood on the bottom, painted black, with paned glass on the top. Just above the door is a small sign in white cursive lettering that says One Bean. I’m sure many marketers would frown on such a horrible effort of getting the shop noticed, especially since it’s recessed inward by about ten feet, but the owner was far smarter than they’d expect. As the shop itself is two stories, there’s a small balcony above the door that holds two tables where patrons can sit on a nice day. It’s bordered with black wrought-iron railing and attached to the exterior of said railing is the word COFFEE, done in marquis lettering three feet tall and blazing with light bulbs along each letter.

  Edison light bulbs are also strung across the width of the recessed space, crisscrossed back and forth, and it provides for a magical atmosphere at night. I freaking love this place.

  We open at six for the early morning commuters, and my day-shift manager, Lisa, has the place in tip-top shape by the time I walk in at eight. The interior is packed, and three espresso machines are chugging behind the counter at the same time. Glass cases on either side of the two registers showcase a delicious array of pastries, muffins, yogurts, granolas, cookies, breads, and other sweet edibles to have with coffee—or tea for the weird ones.

  Glancing around with pride, I take in every filled table. The inside of One Bean is as charming and eclectic as the outside. The walls are the same worn red brick, and the flooring is reclaimed pine. The tables are bleached oak, and the chairs have the same matching wood on the seats, but the back and legs are painted black. Immediately to the left of the entrance is a floating staircase that leads up to the second floor, which has about half the space as the first floor. It’s a popular spot, and I know there won’t be an empty seat up there either.

  I make eye contact with Lisa, who has been at One Bean for almost five years now. She wears her hair shorn into a buzz cut, which one might think would make her look mannish. On the contrary, her face is delicately feminine, and her makeup is so expertly applied that it enhances her beauty. She is always wearing some type of floating, gauzy dress, usually patterned in flowers or butterflies, giving her a bit of a hippie vibe. This totally contradicts all the piercings in her face—at least seven or eight in each ear, an eyebrow bar, a nose ring, and a stud on the outside of her lower lip. She’s like a patchwork of different styles, which is another reason I love working here. We aren’t required to wear uniforms, and we’re encouraged to be ourselves.

  Lisa’s working behind the counter, and she gives me a chin lift. I point to the bathrooms down a short hall to the right, then to my hair. She grins, knowing exactly what I mean, given the weather outside and my unruly mop.

  Weaving through the line of customers waiting to place their order, I head into the women’s bathroom. Same red brick walls and pine floors. Amber-colored bowl sinks are set into a wooden vanity with two stalls done in lacquered black paint.

  It’s empty and as I step up to the mirror, I blow a frustrated sigh out of my mouth. Placing my backpack on the wooden top, I fish out a hair tie.

  My mom was a redhead like me, but I only know that from the stories my dad tells or by old pictures of her. But my red is a bit different.

  “Like fire,” my dad would always exclaim with pride. It’s vivid, bright, and loud.

  And there’s a bunch of it. It hangs midway down my back and despite the fact I rarely cut it, it has various layers. Moreover, my hair can’t decide which way it wants to behave. Half is a mass of coiled curls that, when pulled taut, would reach my butt. The other half is merely wavy. When the two intermix, it makes for a crazy, hard-to-tame mane—and that’s on a good day. It’s impossible to manage on a misty day.

  As such, I gather it up into a huge messy knot on top of my head. A few of the wavy shorter pieces fall out and frame my face.

  I take a second to study said face, knowing I look like my mom there, too. Classic heart-shape, pale skin, adequately full lips, and I was blessed with the best eyebrow shape in the history of women’s eyebrows. They are delicately arched and rarely need to be plucked.

  My most striking feature, by far, is my eyes, but far be it from me to be the one to laud my peepers. So many people comment on them—even strangers stop me on the street. From a few feet away, they are a strange bluish-green tint. Up close though, the colors don’t actually mesh but are differentiated. Close to my pupils are rings of gold, which striate into a circle of green, which melts into an outer border of blue. In my life, I’ve never seen another person with eyes like mine and sometimes that can make me feel overly strange.

  My dad used to say that on the night I was born, an angel shot a bolt of magic into me, which fried my hair into curls and filled my eyes with the heavens.

  Of course, my dad was nutters, so it wasn’t something I believed. I just found it to be charming.

  Finished with my perusal, I leave the women’s bathroom and step across the hall to the office. I’m the only one other than the owner who has a key, and I unlock it to open the door enough to toss my backpack inside. The other employees have lockers in the small break room at the end of the hall. After locking it back up, I head to the heartbeat of the shop.

  I make my way behind the counter where magical coffee dreams are made and money is collected.

  I greet each of the employees by name and with a smile. I’m a good boss, overly genial and fair. I can be hard when warranted—such as come in late three times and the fourth, the employee would see the temper of a redhead—but for the most part, it’s a very chill work environment.

  We have two cash registers and only one person working them, so I step up to the unmanned one and turn the key to fire it up. The line splits, and customers come over to me.

  Looking up from the register, I greet the first one with a bright, cheery smile. “Welcome to One Bean. What can I get…”

  My words trail off because my stomach sours, and my heart starts pounding as I take in the customer before me.

  To every other person in this shop, he looks normal enough—a morning commuter dressed in slacks and a nice button-down with a crew-neck sweater over it. It’s the standard attire for most businessmen downtown and you rarely see men or women in expensive, tailored suits. Seattle’s just way too casual for that. He has a briefcase in one hand and a phone in the other. Ordinary face, brown hair, and brown eyes.

  But as I take him in, I don’t have to look hard to know there’s something wrong with him. The vibe I’m getting—while making me distinctly nauseous—is cold, hard… maybe even psychopathic.

  I could see him with clearer eyes if I so chose, but I tamp down on that particular gift. It’s not a pleasant experience. Like Mr. Pelman, he’s one of “them” and I learned my lesson where “they” are concerned a long time ago. The less I know, the better. It’s bad enough knowing my dad was a little crazy—I don’t want anyone thinking the same about me. And I definitely don’t want to believe that about myself anymore.

  I lock myself down tight, even as a cold sweat chills my body. My vision glazes slightly as I look at him, a cheery smile still in p
lace. “Sorry… what can I get you today?”

  He gives his order, which I write on the cup. His voice is hard and gravely, his tone just short of snide. In just that short meeting, I can tell he’s a jerk to most people but that’s not the reason I’m experiencing fear. That’s just surface personality. It’s what lies beneath that has my knees shaking just slightly.

  His name, so normal… Dan. If he had a knife in hand and no witnesses, I bet he’d take pleasure in slitting my throat.

  And I hate that I know that about him.

  I take his money, careful not to touch his fingertips, and hand over his change. I avoid obvious eye contact the entire time, instead keeping a hazy awareness of his body in general. My mouth feels like it’s going to crack as I desperately hold onto my smile.

  When he steps to the side to await his order, my gaze lowers to the cash register. I let out a long exhale, returning it immediately with a calming breath.

  I lift my head, welcoming smile back in place, and ready myself to greet the next customer.

  “Shit,” I mutter when I see the woman standing before me.

  My twin sister, Fallon.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  CHAPTER 2

  Finley

  I tell Lisa I need about ten minutes, and she cheerfully says I should take my time. Grabbing Fallon’s tall half-caff, soy latte, and a straight-up black for myself, I wind my way through the tables. She miraculously found one under the staircase that leads to the second floor.

  Fallon sits facing me as I approach, but her head is bent over her phone, fingers flying across the screen. We’re fraternal twins and stand us side by side, it’s easy to tell we’re sisters, but no one ever guesses we were born on the same day. Outside of some slight resemblances in the face—nose, arched eyebrows, chin—we’re like night and day.

  Whereas Fallon is polished, educated, and accomplished, I’m a college dropout managing a coffee shop. While she wears designer clothes, elegant jewelry, and has monthly spa visits to pamper herself, I like my skinny jeans, Chucks, and t-shirts, sometimes with a flannel on top. Relaxation for me is sitting on the back deck drinking a beer and reading a good book.

  As I’ve already mentioned, my red hair looks like a perpetual cyclone circles around it while hers is all smooth and sleek from weekly blowouts. Her fingers are soft, her nails manicured. Mine are chewed and ragged.

  The list could go on and on, but you get the point. There’s not much we have in common.

  I assume she’s on her way into work, and maybe stopped in on a whim. She owns an art gallery on First Avenue in Belltown, but her condo is just a short four-block walk north of One Bean.

  Not that she’d make the walk. No, I’m sure she had a car service bring her here, and the driver is probably circling the block until she’s ready to head to the gallery.

  It’s not intentional on her part, but she always makes me feel drab in comparison to her, despite my fire-engine-red hair. Today, she’s exquisitely elegant in a pair of wide-legged, camel-colored pants, a white blouse that frills up around her neck but in no way looks old fashioned, and beautiful nude heels with pointed toes that look like they’d kill the feet within just a few moments of putting them on. Fallon changes her hair frequently, but the style du jour is an asymmetrical bob that’s cut just to the nape at the back and hangs longer in the front but doesn’t quite touch her shoulders. It’s shiny, and I’m sure laden with a hundred dollars’ worth of product.

  She lifts her head when I set her coffee on the table and I take the chair opposite her. Because I know it will irritate her, I slump down and kick my legs out, my hands curled around my recycled cardboard cup of java. “So, what’s up?”

  Fallon doesn’t answer right away, instead appraising me as she takes a sip of her coffee. She gives a tiny moan of satisfaction, which I don’t get… it’s decaf, and soy, and just gross.

  “You should sit up straight,” she murmurs, intentionally ignoring my question as to what brings her into my domain. In the six years since I’ve been working at One Bean, this may be the third time she’s come in.

  Because I don’t want to fight, I straighten and even cross one leg over the other to mimic her pose. I may dress in grunge most of the time, but I still have a distinctly feminine side. “Why are you here?”

  Her look is chastising. “You missed dinner last night.”

  “You make it sound like I just didn’t show up,” I reply calmly. “I texted you and told you I had to work late.”

  All true, and what does it say about me that I was relieved I had to work late and would not have to suffer through a meal with Fallon and her incredibly snobbish, uptight fiancé.

  “Just as you’ve missed the last four dinner invitations I’ve extended to you,” she replies in a censuring tone.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, and truthfully, I am. I wish I could be a better sister to her because she does try to include me in her life.

  She gives me a small smile, perhaps an acceptance of my apology. “I certainly hope you took tonight off.”

  “Tonight?” I ask, mind racing. “Why tonight?”

  Fallon’s beautiful face goes slack, her eyes filling with disappointment. “My art show? The one I asked you to please come to over four months ago—that you promised to attend? I’ve been sending you texts all week to remind you, but you haven’t responded. So if you want to know why I’m here, Miss Finley Porter, it’s to make sure you’re going to live up to your promise and come tonight.”

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I had totally forgotten. I’m horrible at keeping track of functions. I miss half the appointments I schedule because I simply forget to put them in that handy-dandy little calendar on my iPhone.

  Moreover, I probably subconsciously didn’t put it in my phone and have been consciously ignoring her texts because while I love my sister, and I’m proud of her for this big show she’s putting on, there is no place I would rather avoid than an art gallery filled with rich, obnoxious people dressed in five-figure dresses and bidding insane amounts of money on ugly paintings.

  “Fallon.” The pleading in my eyes matches my tone. “I’m so sorry. But I forgot and unfortunately—”

  She cuts me off mid-excuse with a hand held up, palm facing me. Her voice has its own pleading tone. “You promised, Finley.”

  My gaze drops. I had indeed promised. At the time, I got sucked in because she was begging me to come, wanting her sister by her side. She guilted me, and, yes, I promised.

  “You know, Finley,” she continues, her voice getting softer by the word. “I try so hard to keep a relationship going with you, but you make it so difficult. I try to let go of all the things you do to show me I’m not important enough in your life, like ignoring all my dinner invitations. But this is incredibly important. I don’t ask a lot of you, but I am asking you to uphold your promise to me.”

  There’s no getting around it. I’m well and truly committed to this event. I don’t break promises, and I do want to show my support. Our mother died in childbirth and while we never developed that twin bond so many people marvel over, Fallon developed somewhat of a mothering role. She took good care of me growing up because, despite being only two minutes older, she seemed infinitely wiser. And, because our dad could be unreliable at times, it was often Fallon who made sure there was dinner on the table and milk in the fridge.

  So yes, I will suck it up and go for her.

  Reaching across the table, I grab her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m a bitch and hard to pin down, but yes… I will absolutely go tonight.”

  Her face softens, a smile breaking wide in relief. “Thank you.”

  Pulling my hand away, I motion to my body. “I can wear this, right? Because I’ll have to come straight from work.”

  Fallon sniffs, grimacing at my outfit. “Under no uncertain terms can you wear that.”

  “You know I don’t have anything appropriate.”

  “Well, it’s a go
od thing we’re the same size,” she replies easily. “Be at my condominium at five, and I’ll put you in one of my gowns.”

  “I have to wear a gown?” I ask in horror.

  “And heels,” she adds maliciously.

  Groaning dramatically, I drop my forehead to the table. I pray for strength before looking back up at her. “Why do I have to be there so early? The show doesn’t start until eight.”

  “Because I have to be at the gallery well before then, and it’s going to take a bit of time to do your hair and makeup. I can’t have my sister looking like a street rat.”

  “Hair and makeup,” I exclaim, making an exaggerated faux moan of discomfort for effect. “Fallon… you’re killing me here.”

  At that, she laughs, and it’s a beautiful thing. Patrons to our right actually turn to look at her, and I take a moment to enjoy this lighthearted moment with my sister. We don’t have many these days, only for the fact we both lead very busy and very different lives.

  Having my promise in person while looking her dead in the eye, Fallon’s work here is done. She rises from the table, and I do the same. In an uncharacteristic display of affection, she steps around and pulls me into a hug. I’m shocked because Fallon’s not the hugging type, so I’m stiff and straight-armed for a moment. It feels right and wrong at the same time when you’re not used to it.

  I’ve often wondered if the fact we’re fraternal and not identical is why we never twin bonded. Or maybe it’s because of our father, the man I loved more than anything and who Fallon could barely stand at times. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven him for taking his life, and I’m fairly sure she resented our bond that seemed to survive even his passing.

  Which means, at times, I think she resented me.

  And maybe… I resented her for not loving our father the way I did, but she just couldn’t accept his shortcomings. He was too much of an embarrassment to her.

  Yes, our family was dysfunctional, and then it was split apart when our father shot himself. You would think in times like that, Fallon and I would cling to each other, but instead, it caused us to drift a little farther apart. I was lost without my papa, and she couldn’t understand the level of my grief. Add to that the stress of living with an unknown relative until we turned of age, by the time we became adults, Fallon and I led vastly different lives.