Page 3 of I Was Always Yours (RCA: Royal Crown Academy)

“That’s all you're getting him? Flowers ripped out of his own garden?”

“Well, no,” She frowns, worry settling across her brow. “My parents bought him a birthday gift as well but these…,” She cocks her head and looks back at me, her eyes shining in the dusky light, “They’re from me.”

Her accent rings through more clearly in her words this time. It’s not overly strong but it does lend a melodic lilt to her voice that’s hypnotizing.

French.

She doesn’t look it.

I kick at a rock and stare her down. “What are you getting me then?”

She studies me, the expression on her face curious. “Nothing, it’s not your birthday.”

I take a step towards her. “It is.”

She stills momentarily before understanding lights up her eyes and a large smile pulls at her lips as she beams at me. “You’re Astor’s brother!” She exclaims, hugging the flowers to her chest excitedly.

I take another step.

“I’m Phoenix,” I correct.

Unexpectedly, she’s the one who closes the gap between us as she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me, the sound of her happy laughter hitting my ear.

“I’ve been so excited to meet you,” She exclaims, releasing me and stepping back, “Astor talked about you all summer.” She looks at me critically before she adds, “You don’t look like twins.”

I stiffen internally at her words. She’s right, we don’t, and I’ve been told the same thing over and over again for as long as I can remember.

We’re the very antithesis of each other. Where he’s blond and blue eyed, I’ve got black hair and corresponding depthless eyes.

He and his matching dimples can charm anyone, children and adults alike, whereas I’m quiet and reserved, preferring to fade into the background so I can observe everyone from a distance.

Our faces are similarly structured beyond that, with a straight nose and full lips courtesy of our not-too-distant Italian heritage.

He’s three minutes older, my best friend and, unwittingly, my greatest rival.

He’s the golden boy and I’m in the shadows.

Every time someone points out our differences, I can’t help but feel that we’re both being picked apart, weighed up against the other and the result is the same.

I’m always the one found wanting.

“And yet we are.” I reply dryly, “Who are you?”

“I’m Sixtine, your new neighbor.” She turns and points at the mansion situated a couple acres from ours, its large facade imposing even from this distance. “My mum’s French but my dad is English. He wanted to come home, so we moved to Hampshire in July. You’ve been in Paris, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been taking riding lessons with Astor all summer, that’s how we became friends. He told me you were there for karate camp?” She poses the last part of her sentence as a question.

“Judo.”

Always anxious to have us in summer activities and out of their way, my parents had found monthlong camps for both of us. Unsurprisingly, they’d managed to find Astor something that kept him at home while sending me to another country for five weeks.

There’s an amazing judo program in Paris, far better than any you can find in London so when they’d told me, it’d made sense.

And yet, it still stung.

“Astor says you’re really good. Could you bring a grown adult down to the mat, do you think?” She asks, and the corner of my lips lifts at that being her first question. “You have a nice smile,” She adds, somewhat absentmindedly.

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