“Lo was better than me in every way.”
“Doubt that,” he murmurs.
I look over at him. He’s watching me, his gaze intent on studying my distant features. I want to believe that opening up to him will somehow make him reciprocate. He’s angry, I just don’t know at who.
Who am I angry at?
“You didn’t know Lo,” I argue. “You would have liked her way more than me. Everybody did. Mama always said she loved us equally, and I think she meant it. But there was this…I don’t know, glow about Logan.”
I used to think there was two of us because one wasn’t made right. Never once did I think the faulty edition was Lo, but me.
He’s quiet for a minute. “Technically, I wouldn’t have ever met either of you if she hadn’t died.”
Sucking in a breath, I let his blunt statement soak into my chest. He either doesn’t know how to use his filter or doesn’t care. I think it’s the latter.
Sighing, he shifts slightly. “That was fucked up even for me.”
I shrug. “Not untrue, though.”
“Tell me about your mom,” he prods.
My brows shoot up. “What?”
He remains quiet.
“Uh…” I shake off my surprise and hug my knees to my chest. “She was a great person, a loving mother to Lo and me. When we were little, she used to let us help her cook dinner almost every night even though we were in her way more times than not. She’d find reasons to laugh when we messed up simple recipes, but it was fun.”
Smiling, I remember how Mama taught Lo and I fractions through baking. Whenever she would make brownies or cupcakes for school bake sales, she would make sure we understood measurements and how to add and subtract the right amount of ingredients. It was the same for spelling. When everything was in the oven, she’d have us play with the magnet letters on the refrigerator, making silly sentences that didn’t make much sense but used new words we’d learned.
Mama cared about us. I never doubted that for a second when we were younger. She would sing to us and play with us in the backyard. Even after a long day of work, she would read stories that we’d heard hundreds of times. She never hesitated.
Until … she did.
“She still is,” I correct, though I’m not as confident in saying so. It’s hard when I live so far away from her and Grandma now.
“You sure about that?”
“What about you?”
One of his brows lifts.
“What’s your dad like?”
“An asshole.”
“Must be where you get it from.”
He glares. I smile. It feels good to get a reaction from him instead of the other way around. Still, the joy doesn’t last.
“So?”
“So, what?”
“Your dad.”
His jaw ticks. “The guy ditched. I’m not sure there’s anything to say. Not everything can be clean cut or rainbows and fucking unicorns.”
Is he implying that’s what my life is? “I don’t think anybody lives with that perception. Not even people who haven’t experienced loss.”
He snorts. “Think again, Mouse. People want to believe the world is this beautiful place. Some of us just aren’t as stupid.”
I know he’s only making his point to divert my attention away from his lack of answer. He doesn’t think I’ll notice—maybe he doesn’t believe I’ll push. After all, mice are known for being quiet.
They’re also known for being sneaky.
“Maybe you’re right,” I murmur. “Not all of us are capable of talking about our feelings. My Dad is like that. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he avoids tough topics at all costs. You know, like the one at the restaurant.”
Nothing.
I shrug, sighing lightly. “Mama used to tell Logan and I that men found it hard to express themselves because society told them it wasn’t okay to feel. Even before Dad left, I had this preconceived notion that men had it worse than women because they weren’t allowed to grieve or cry or do anything women could so freely. When I pictured Dad in that situation, I felt bad for him. Then he left and I wasn’t sure what to think, and then Lo died and…”
I wet my bottom lip. “And I stopped feeling bad for him and started blaming him instead. Mama never talked about how hard it was for men to express themselves after that, but I could tell she still believed it. Maybe you’re upset with your father too, but you’re afraid to tell anyone.”
He doesn’t make a single sound, so I turn slightly to him and see his sharp jaw tick. “I know we don’t really know each other, but I know how hard it is to feel like you have nobody to express yourself to. If you want, I can be that person for you. You don’t have to bottle everything up, Kaiden.”
His shoulders go back when I say his name, and ever so slowly he turns his head to meet my eyes. When his gaze locks on my face, I pipe down when I see how dark his expression is.
Reaching out, he gently tugs my face closer to his, leaning in ever so slightly until I can feel his breath on my cheek. My heart is going into overdrive as he brushes the pad of his thumb over my soft skin, leaving a trail of fire scorching the surface.
Suddenly, his caress stops. The darkness in his tight lips meld into morbid humor as they tug upwards at the corners. “That’s just the thing, Mouse. I never wanted a sister. Least of all someone as damaged as you.”
My lips part as he drops his hand and leans back, eyes distant like he didn’t just insult me. Resting back against the tree trunk, he looks out at the field.
Shaking my head, I stand up. “I don’t want a new sibling. That feels like I’m cheating on Logan. All I want is a friend while I’m here, because like it or not you’re stuck with me.”
He scoffs in disbelief. “You can run back to your mom anytime you want. From what I hear, you chose to leave her. Not the other way around.”
He sounds bitter about it. Is that what his problem is? “Not everything is so black and white. My choice to leave wasn’t an easy one to make.”
“You still left.”
My eye twitches. “It was for the best.”
“For who?” He finally looks at me, challenge flaring in his eyes. “You spew bullshit about men struggling with grief and their feelings, but what about your mom? You left her behind when she’s at her weakest. You have a place to live, someone who needs you, and you fucking left her.”
My fists clench at my sides. “I want to go home, Kaiden.”
Nothing.
“Kaiden—”
He bolts up and gets in my face, causing me to flinch back. A headache builds, radiating in my skull and making its presence known. “I could leave you here if I wanted. You know that, right? You have no friends. You have nobody to rescue you.”
Because you told everyone at school not to associate with me! I want to scream at him.
If there was even one person who would give me the time of day while we’re trapped in desks with the smell of dry erase markers permeating the air, it would make things easier. Even him, the very asshole who cemented my isolation, I would appreciate a simple smile from where others could see.
“Your point?” I whisper.