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.