7 JANE COBALT “You can’t be serious,” I whisper to the Moretti brothers, and I can’t believe I even ask. Both are very serious men, Thatcher more so than Banks. They’re definitely not playing a practical joke on me. My bugged eyes dart between my boyfriend and his twin brother in the noisy South Philly sports bar. So crowded here that only one barstool was unoccupied. Thatcher has taken the stool. And while I clutch a pint of beer, I sit across his lap, his strong arm around my waist—and I’ve been really, really taken with our seating arrangement. Especially the nearness of his chest, his body
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