Prologue

BEN

My head is spinning worse than one of those amusement park rides.

I stagger into my bedroom, literally bouncing off the doorframe, fingertips clipping the side of the door to slam it closed behind me.

The sounds of the frat party raging on dulls a fraction, which eases up some of the pounding in my head.

My chuckle turns into more of a giggle as I kick off my shoes and nearly hit the deck headfirst before catching myself. I've missed this. My frat brothers, the parties, the hot men who want to experiment in college.

It's all good.

Going home for break is amazing because I love my family and miss them while I'm gone, but when the new term is looming, I'm desperate to get away again. There really can be too much of a good thing.

It takes multiple attempts to struggle out of my shirt, and I give up getting undressed before I reach my jeans. It's not only my head but the room that's spinning now, and one moment, my bed looks like it's partway up the wall, and the next, I'm upside down.

What the hell was in that beer bong?

An annoying tapping starts against my eardrum that I try to shake away, but my foot slips on one of my shoes, and I go down hard.

"Oww."

The yelp is more reflex, though, because nothing actually hurts. In fact, the floor is feeling extra comfy tonight. I flop onto my side on the hardwood, ignoring how much cum, piss, spit, and vomit has probably covered it over the years.

My eyes are growing heavy. That blissful, tipsy-turvy darkness that drags you under after too much alcohol tugs at me, and I relax, hoping for it to kick in faster.

But that stupid tapping won't leave me alone.

"Urg, stop it, brain." I slap my cheek a few times, trying to get it to quit.

It doesn't work.

Stupid, fucking?—

"Benny."

I pause. Am I talking to myself? Did I just imagine my name?

More tapping. "Benny, open the fucking window."

Window?

I flop onto my back like a dead fish and tilt my head to look. The curtains are still parted, and there, on the other side of the glass, is me.

Upside-down me.

Only that me is wearing a hoodie pulled up over his wild hair and doesn't laugh when I laugh.

"You're supposed to be inside," I grumble at my reflection that's not reflectioning right.

My reflection gestures to the window. "Hurry up."

A barely human noise leaves me as I crawl in his direction. I pull myself up onto my knees at the window frame, unlock it, then push the window up and out of the way.

"Well, hellooo." I drag it out like a cartoon villain, realizing it's not my disobedient reflection at all.

"On a scale of one to five J?gerbombs, how tanked are you?"

I have to squint one eye and concentrate as I try to bring my thumb and forefinger a small distance apart. "I am this drunks."

"Phew. Here I was worried you'd overdone it." My perfect twin pushes me out of his way as he climbs into my bedroom.

And I don't mean perfect as in "wah wah he's so good, and everyone loves him, and I have a complex" perfect. I mean identical perfect.

So identical we switch places all the time and no one knows perfect. Our own family sometimes makes Em show them the scar on his hand just so they can be sure who is who.

All it takes is one of us to open our mouths though.

Emmett is sweet. Almost na?ve.

I'm much more like our brother Asher eat-shit-and-die Dalton.

"You know I hate when you drink." He reaches under my bed to slide out the single mattress we have stashed there. "I always end up with a headache the next morning."

"Sacrifice I'm willing to make."

He strips off his hoodie and throws it at my face. "You need water."

"Too drunks."

He puts on a baby voice and pinches his thumb and forefinger together. "But I thought you were only this manys."

"You're killing my buzz. This room is for fun times only."

He laughs and pulls my arm over his shoulders to help me to my bed. I fall down face-first, and ohhh, this is much more comfortable than the floor. "Are all your frat brothers drunk?"

"Yuuup."

"Good. Stay here, and I'll be back in a second."

The music gets louder for a beat before he closes the door behind him. He could be gone for a second or five years, but next thing I know, a cold glass of water is bumping my cheek.

"Drink it."

"Yes, Captain Serious." I snicker as I take the glass and open my mouth greedily, only I misjudge the distance, and water gushes over my face.

"Fuck." I shoot upright, coughing up the drops I inhaled and shaking the rest from my frizzly hair. I'm suddenly a whole lot more sober than I want to be. "You did that on purpose."

"I let go of the cup about five minutes ago."

Urg. I drain what's left and use the glass to push aside the red Solo cups cluttering my nightstand. Apparently, someone other than me has been in my room tonight. Maybe the floor was the safer option.

"Did you lock the door?" I ask.

"Of course."

Slowly, my brain cells blink back online. "As much as I love our sleepovers, it's been a week since term started. You can't be missing me already."

Em doesn't meet my eyes as he pulls his pajamas out of the backpack he's brought with him. He forces a laugh, and it still weirds me out that I look that sweet when I laugh as well. I certainly don't ever fucking feel it. "I, umm, might have missed you so much that I started a fire on campus, got expelled, and am now your permanent roommate."

My vision goes wonky again.

"Huh?"

"It was a dare. A dumb dare. And apparently, I'm good at starting fires because next thing I know, the dorm is going up, and I panicked. Starting it was easy. Putting it out was not."

I'm not sure when my mouth fell open or when Emmett's body started to warp in and out, but I can only assume there was way, way more than beer in those beer bongs, and I'm hallucinating that my sweet, good brother got expelled. "Huuuuh?"

"Stop being dramatic."

"You … fire?"

"Yes. Also expelled. Lucky me."

Holy shit, I might be sick, and it's not the alcohol this time. "They threw you out? What the fuck, dude? Need me to go down there and talk to them?"

He grins my way. "You can't even talk to me right now. What are you going to do? Throw up on the dean's shoes?"

"I'll make him take you back!"

"First, that's impossible. Second, you go to San Diego State, and then they'll realize there's two of us, and we'll be in even more trouble than I'm already in."

Please, please, let me be hallucinating.

I lurch to my feet, too worked up to sit still. "Why aren't you freaking out?"

Emmett climbs into the bed he's made himself on the spare mattress. "Dunno." I'm sure I spot a smile slipping onto his face, but I blink hard to clear my vision, and it's gone again.

"We have to do something," I slur, pacing. "If West finds out … or Asher?—"

"We're not telling them."

That calms just a smidge of my panic because our older brothers are going to be pissed. They're both huge hockey stars—West is retired and a head coach now—and all our lives, they've pushed us to follow in their footsteps. We were on that path too. The Dalton duo. Set to enter the draft and be some of the top picks. It was only a few months before it happened that Emmett and I decided we fucking hated the pressure we were under, the way the media treated our brothers, and how much we'd have to sacrifice just to play a sport we didn't love anymore.

We ran to the other side of the fucking country, from Vermont to California, to go to college where no one gives a shit who we're related to.

And what did we tell our furious big bros? We were getting our degrees to make a difference in the world.

Holy fuck, they're going to kill us.

I glare at Emmett standing right in front of me. "You're an asshole."

"I'm over here."

I sway on the spot, turning to find he is, in fact, still in bed … and I'm abusing my reflection.

"Fuck."

"We'll talk about this some more tomorrow."

"Talk about your face tomorrow."

"That sounds like a funner topic."

I groan and stagger over to collapse again, hoping the third time's a charm. Alcohol really doesn't like staying upright.

But even as I try to switch off my brain, the worry is overriding it.

We came to California with a plan. We were going to succeed.

Now, Emmett has nothing, and even though it wasn't my fault, I can't help but feel responsible.

I'm him. He's me.

If he's struggling, then so am I.

There has to be a way to get him back in. This can't be it.

My last memory before passing out is reaching over to pat him on the head.

I try to tell him everything will be okay, but the words don't make it past my lips.