Melissa Carter was raised in a family of caregivers. Her dad ran a family practice in Marietta, her mom fixed kids’ smiles at a dental clinic in Roswell. Their Decatur colonial was always buzzing—friends, mostly doctors and nurses, piling in for Fourth of July cookouts or Sunday potlucks with fried catfish and peach cobbler. The air rang with laughter and the clink of sweet tea glasses. Growing up, Melissa knew she’d be a healer, too. Medicine was in her blood.
She sailed into Emory University’s medical school, her parents’ late-night study sessions paying off. Living at home, she skipped the dorm scene—no all-night study groups or Dogwood Festival parties. Her folks kept her focused. “Boys’ll wait, sugar,” her mom would say, slicing okra in the kitchen. “Get that degree, and life’ll sort itself out.” But Melissa’s heart craved more than lecture halls. She was young, yearning for a love that set her soul on fire.
She was cute—curvy, with bouncy chestnut curls and freckles—but her weight bugged her. Diets came and went, but she couldn’t match the willowy girls in Atlanta’s trendy bars. Suitors were scarce, and she’d fumble through small talk at family barbecues, where neighbors brought Jamaican jerk chicken. Then Latoya, a midwife from Piedmont Hospital, started visiting her mom. One day, she brought her son, Jake.
Jake was a whirlwind—bold, untamed, the guy who lit up any dive bar. A mechanic, he spent nights racing his motorcycle down Buford Highway or jamming to OutKast with his crew at Grant Park. They’d crank trap music and crack open PBRs. Melissa, bookish and reserved, was hooked on his energy. He nicknamed her “Peach” for her rosy glow, grinning, “Your curves are perfect, girl.” Their chemistry was instant.
It started simple. Melissa helped Jake study for his GED, quizzing him on algebra by her bedroom window. In exchange, he pulled her into his world—midnight runs to The Varsity for chili dogs, smoky juke joints, and bonfires by the Chattahoochee. She hung with his friends, belted Garth Brooks off-key, and felt free. Jake didn’t care about her shyness or extra pounds. He’d wrap her in his arms, whispering, “You’re my kinda magic.” Melissa fell head over heels, picturing a life together.
But Jake’s temper was a powder keg. He’d flip if a guy smiled at her too long or if she missed a text. Her parents despised him. Her mom laid into her over collard greens.
— Bless your heart, Melissa, what’s so special about that boy? He’s got no prospects, livin’ paycheck-to-paycheck with his mama. You need a steady fella, maybe a surgeon.
Melissa bristled.
— Mama, I love Jake. He’s real, not some stuck-up med student. I’m an adult, back off.
Tensions boiled over one summer. Jake’s buddies planned a camping trip by Lake Allatoona—tents, hot dogs, and a cooler of Miller Lite. Melissa was pumped, fussing over swimsuits, worried she looked “too big” but thrilled. The weekend was a dream: splashing in the lake, grilling burgers, and Jake crooning a love song by the fire, his guitar echoing under the stars. Late at night, he grabbed her hand.
— C’mon, Peach, I got somethin’ special for ya.
He led her through pines, fireflies dancing. In a clearing, a lantern glowed on a blanket. Jake smirked.
— Built this just for us. You, me, and the Georgia sky.
Their kisses deepened, the world melting away. It was her first time, awkward but sweet, wrapped in his denim jacket. Counting stars, Melissa felt invincible. But Jake’s jealousy poisoned it. At a high school reunion at a Midtown brewery, Melissa joined a goofy dance-off, twirling to a Lizzo track with a classmate. Jake barged in, saw the guy’s hand on her hip, and erupted.
— What’s this, Melissa? Cheatin’ on me? he roared, pushing the guy.
— Jake, it’s a dumb dance! You’re humiliatin’ me! she snapped, tears stinging.
He stormed out, she sobbed, and pride kept them apart. No apologies. Jake flaunted a new girlfriend, rubbing salt in Melissa’s wound. It broke her. When he and his mom moved to Macon, she tried to heal, but Jake’s ghost lingered. First loves carve deep.
Melissa buried herself in work, snagging a paramedic job with Atlanta EMS. Her parents helped her buy a snug Decatur condo. She even gave marriage a shot. Her mom, aching for her happiness, introduced her to Brian, a chiropractor. He was polished, always in crisp polos, but dull. No spark, but Melissa thought steady was fine. They married quietly, but the fire never ignited. Brian was vain—endless mirror checks, gym bragging, and a mom who hovered.
— When’s the baby comin’, Melissa? his mother would prod. Time’s tickin’.
Life was a slog: Brian nitpicking her mac-and-cheese, Melissa retreating. One night, he went too far.
— If you can’t have kids, why’re we even together? Mom says a family needs babies.
Melissa laughed, cold.
— Brian, you don’t love me. Let’s end this.
The divorce was painless, no drama. Alone felt better. Over iced tea, she told her mom,
— No more blind dates, Mama. I’m good with just Whiskers.
One stormy dawn, trudging home from a shift, Melissa heard a weak meow by a dumpster. Inside a wet bag was a tiny kitten, shivering and frail. Her heart cracked open. She nursed him, feeding him with a dropper, treating his crusty eyes. Whiskers grew into a glossy tabby, her constant companion, nuzzling her through lonely nights.
The wedding drama left her rattled. Ethan or Jake? It haunted her. She scoured X, finding a post about the Thornton wedding. Groom: Ethan Hayes, manager at Hayes Coffee Co. No trace of Jake. She called Carla, a DMV clerk friend, who pulled Ethan’s file: Savannah native, clean record, parents ran a coffee roastery. Legit guy.
Melissa wasn’t sold. Grabbing her photo album—Jake’s grin frozen in time—she headed to Hayes Coffee Co. in Midtown. Posing as a client, she found Ethan’s office, her palms sweaty as she knocked.
— Ethan? I’m Melissa, from the wedding. I’m sorry for the mess. Can we talk?
Ethan looked wary but waved her in. She slid Jake’s photos across his desk.
— This is Jake, my ex. You’re his double. I gotta know if you’re playin’ me.
Ethan stared at the pictures, his face paling.
— Damn, that’s eerie. He’s me, but I’m Ethan, swear to God. Savannah boy, never met him. I see why you’re freaked. You loved him, huh? Tell me his story.
Melissa’s voice wavered.
— Jake was my everything. His mom, a midwife, knew my parents. We met at my place, just teens. He was wild—bikes, music, all passion. But he was crazy jealous. We split over a stupid fight at a reunion. He moved to Macon. Seeing you… it’s like he’s back. Even your stance is the same.
Ethan nodded, serious.
— That’s rough. I’ll talk to my parents, see if there’s some family secret. Maybe it’s just a fluke, but I’ll check. Give me your number. And don’t worry about Thornton—I’ll calm him down.
They shook hands, and Melissa raced to her shift, her head spinning. Ethan drove to his parents’ bungalow in Candler Park. His mom was frying cornbread, the kitchen thick with buttery warmth. His dad scrolled ESPN.
— Son! What’s good? Midweek drop-in? his dad asked, lowering the volume.
Ethan laid Jake’s photo on the table.
— This guy’s my twin. A paramedic at my wedding thought I was him. Am I adopted? What’s the truth?
His mom dropped her skillet, eyes welling.
— Ethan, I swore I’d take this to my grave. You had a twin brother. I birthed you both, but a hospital fire caused hell. They evacuated us, and… he was gone. We only got you. We fought, filed complaints, but he vanished. We thought he was lost forever.
Ethan’s knees buckled.
— A twin? And you never told me? He could be out there, hurtin’, and I had no clue!