Skintight (Completed)

Chapter 4

"Please tell me one of you idiots made breakfast," a desperate Dani walks into the kitchen, her hair and makeup already done. She's fully dressed and ready to go.

"You betcha," Isaiah lifts his bowl into the air.

"That's not breakfast. That's cardboard," she pulls the freezer open. "I could've sworn we still had a batch of waffles."

"We did," I tell her. "You ate them last night."

"And neither of you stopped me?" she complains.

"I tried."

Just the smell of those rip-off pancakes makes me gag. I don't know why everyone loves them so much. My family basically shunned me for not liking them. It may as well be illegal in our family. I've 'betrayed the bloodline' according to my aunt.

Dani and I must have been switched at birth. I know it's impossible, but if I didn't know any better, I would've sworn it was the truth. If it weren't for our different skin tones, she'd blend in perfectly.

Dani is the smartest person I know. She's not just book-smart; she's smart in every possible way. She's emotionally intelligent and thinks critically about every step she takes. She's analytical, pragmatic, and rational — everything you need to be a respectable member of the family. Those characteristics can be attributed to her father, my Uncle Kaleem, but questions arise when it comes to her cooking skills.

My family has an unwavering, inter-generational love for food. Sweet, sour, or savoury... we eat it all, regardless of the time of day. My grandfather was a pastry chef. He owned a series of dessert bars, spread across the state. He's known for his delicious, syrupy waffles that I can't stand the smell of. The recipe was passed down to my parents, who taught it to my siblings and me as kids. That's how Dani and Isaiah learnt, too.

Even if Dani and I weren't switched at birth, it's hard to believe we aren't siblings. We're not even cousins technically, or related at all. Our parents were best friends. They're fuck buddies now, apparently. They deny it, but why else would they be living together?

"You need to get ready, Vi," Dani grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl. "We're leaving in ten minutes."

"Ugh," I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "We're actually doing that?"

"We aren't. You are," she corrects. "And you're not going to be late."

"But do I actually have to go? Can't I just lie and say I went?"

"Nope. Your trainer has to report your attendance to your therapist."

"Ridiculous," I scoff. They treat me like a rabid dog — like I need constant supervision. I understand having to go to therapy. It's court-ordered. If I didn't agree to therapy, I'd be going to prison. But I didn't think that meant my therapist could force me to do all this other shit Therapy boxing, is what they call it, but it's really just a covert way of saying anger management. As if I need it. Me, instead of him. Fucking bullshit.

"Dad's going to be pissed if you bail," Isaiah points out. "And he's coming for dinner tonight."

I groan out in frustration. "Don't remind me."

"He's already pissed you skipped counselling last week."

"So, let him be pissed."

"Vi..."

"What? It's not like he's going to do anything about it."

"Except move in here and drive you around himself."

"He's not actually going to do that."

"Are you sure about that? Because he already moved across the country once to look after your ass, so I don't doubt that he'd do it again."