Page 61 of Love You Too

“You remember that?” I meet PJ’s patient gaze with one that hopefully hides my concerns.

“Yeah.”

PJ and I are four years apart, which would have made her sixteen when Ren and I broke up. When I was sixteen, I was at the height of self-centered high school angst. And maybe I stayed that way into college because I barely remember what PJ was doing back then. For me, it was all about moving forward, datingmy hunky hockey player boyfriend. And once he dumped me, it was all about the future.

“How?”

She explains. “The younger ones always know what the older ones are doing. I idolized you, Trix. Don’t you remember how I used to dress just like you? You couldn’t stand it.”

As soon as she says it, the memories flood back. I came home for one winter break wearing one of Ren’s hockey jerseys over skinny jeans and navy blue Chucks. The next time I came back to Buttercup Hill, PJ had practically transformed her wardrobe into hockey jerseys she bought at a thrift shop, and she made a point of showing me her blue Chucks. Back then, I did not see imitation as flattery and told her to get a life.

She didn’t. She copied my miniskirts and vintage riding boots, my puffed-sleeved shirts, and my vintage tees with Sesame Street characters. I finally gave up and would just leave whatever clothes I wore home in her closet before I went back to school.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch,” I tell her. “How do you even still stand being in the same family as me?’

“Seriously? Copying you made me the coolest kid in school. You had style, Trix. It may have annoyed you, but I didn’t care. It was like having my own personal stylist.”

The thought had never occurred to me. “You mean, you didn’t hate me for being so awful to you?”

“You weren’t awful to me. You were a normal older sister, and I idolized you despite your crabby moods.” She laughs. “And I’m pretty sure I did you one better on moodiness. Just ask Dad.”

As soon as she says it, she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh. Crap.”

“I knew what you meant. And I wish we could ask him too.”

We sit quietly for a minute, and my mind drifts to what it used to be like when I could ask my dad things. It feels like it’s been years, mainly because he was always so consumed with work, even after our mom divorced him and moved away. I hatedthat they split up, but I was old enough to understand why. And secretly, I hoped that when it was just our dad left and the five of us, he’d feel a greater parental urge. Instead, he doubled down and worked even harder. Rather than becoming a more involved parent, he hired an extra nanny to shuttle us around and do whatever he assumed our mom used to do for us.

Needless to say, it was hardly the same thing.

Now we see our mom about once a year when she’s not traveling. Not the kind of mother I’ll ever be. I may not know much about motherhood, but I know that.

PJ is quiet also, seemingly lost in thought. I wonder how different her memories of those days are. She was just a kid when our mom left, and of all of us, she was our dad’s favorite. He spoiled PJ because she was little and cute. And loud. No one could ignore that kid.

“You probably miss him even more than me because you had more real time with him,” I say, thinking about the years when PJ was the last kid in the house.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t really have time with him. He was all about work.”

I’ve heard people describe our dad that way for years, and it always seemed like ahimproblem. “Workaholic.” “Works so much he doesn’t see his kids.” “Forgets to live life because he’s all about work.” People in town were never very quiet about their opinions, and even though I defended our dad when I could, I knew his reputation was well earned.

But now, for the first time, I hear those descriptions as though people are saying them about me.

“Do I seem like him?” I ask.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. PJ is my sister, but she has her own life, and I don’t imagine she spends a lot of time thinking about my work habits. I guess I think she’ll tell me what I want to hear, that we’re similar in the important ways but I’m not a workaholic.

“Yeah. In terms of work, yeah.”

“Oh.”

I feel the air slip out of my lungs like a long, slow balloon deflating into an empty shell.

A rueful smile spreads across her face, and she tries to cover it by taking a sip of wine. “Sorry. I thought you knew.”

“I mean, I did, sort of. But I kinda hoped I was wrong. Am I really that bad?”

The smile morphs into a frown and PJ smooths my hair.

“Oh my God, you’re smoothing my hair! It’s so much worse than I thought! I’m an emotionless workaholic like Dad used to be.”

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