Baby Gemini went quiet. Then, softer: “That’s the right answer.”
Baby Gemini stopped walking. The river ran dark and patient. “Ricky,” they said, and their voice was two voices now, “if you can’t love the twins, you don’t get to love the person.”
At night, they’d park under the overpass and watch the headlights blur past. Baby Gemini would lean their head on Ricky’s shoulder and whisper, “Which one of us do you like better? The one who laughs too loud, or the one who counts your freckles when you sleep?” baby gemini and ricky
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But next time, bring both of you to the diner. The waitress makes good pie.”
And that was enough.
“I didn’t forget. The other me wanted to see the water.”
Ricky stood still for a long time. Then he took off his jacket and put it around Baby Gemini’s shoulders—both shoulders, equally. Baby Gemini went quiet
Baby Gemini laughed, and the laugh split and harmonized with itself. They walked back to the car, and Ricky drove them home through the empty streets, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Baby Gemini’s hand—two palms, one story, no version control.