“Omigod, we’re neighbors!” Quinn and I scream it at the same time. It’s the last days of Luke & Leroy, and we’re dancing on the top floor.
Other things in common: Gaelic names for no reason, Maurice Villency glass vases, alphabet magnets, and the annoying way everyone compares us – separately – to Carrie Bradshaw. “SJP is way cooler in Footloose,” insists Quinn; another agreement.
The next morning, Josh boasts, “you’ve found your little twin,” but I seem to be the Mary Kate of this situation: Quinn has more patience, and more style, and more grace at handling crap.
Then Ellen calls. “Admit it; you had fun last night,” she hums. “When you were talking to Quinn, it was like the first time you’d been like, cool and happy? In like a month.”
So maybe she was rubbing off after all. Thank god.
[QUINN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIMES A MILLION. EVERYONE ELSE: DON'T YOU NEED A NEW BAG?]
“… has more patience, and more style, and more grace at handling crap.”
LOVED the way you described your twin.