Underneath the Sycamore Tree(20)

Not just any car.

“Want to go to the sycamore?”

Kaiden.

I wet my lips. I should tell him no…

“Sure.”



I tell Kaiden about the song—our song. Mama’s, Logan’s, and mine. He stares at me blankly as I admit how many times I listen to it a day. It plays in my head on repeat, a tune that never gets old.

He tells me it’s stupid. But his eyes tell an entirely different story. In the depths of their jaded tone, there’s an understanding.

What’s your song, Kaiden?

“She wasn’t just my sister.” My voice is quiet as I pick blades of grass out of the ground and examine them in my hand. “She was my twin, my other half.”

My better half, I don’t add.

Where she was outgoing and confident, I was an introvert and self-conscious. She loved to be part of everything while I watched from the sidelines. The only things we did together since we were little were cheer and dance, and that was only because she begged me to. I liked it … until I couldn’t do it anymore. Not just because I wasn’t physically able to, but because everything I did reminded me of her.

“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…”