Page 89 of Our Secrets and Scars

“And she probably did at that moment. But I’d bet my last bottle of bourbon that she doesn’t know the whole story. Am I right?”

I nod silently.

“You really gonna let her go without making her hear you out?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Do what I never did.” He claps me on the shoulder, then grips it tightly. “Fight for her.”

I look into the wise, ashy eyes of my uncle. Experience and the bitter wind of annual Utah winters have aged him. I can count more lines etched into his face now than I could when I was younger. And though they’re a reminder of fleeting time and inevitable, unthinkable goodbyes, they’re also evidence of the life he’s lived and the wisdom he’s collected along the way. Wisdom that he’s now passing on to me.

And so, I do what I’ve always done.

I take it.

“How do I do that?” I ask.

“You’ll work it out.”

He knocks back another glass of bourbon and stands, wiping his hands down the front of his torn-up black jeans. I watch him in frustration, desperate for more of his prudence and glimmering shards of sagacity. But he doesn’t give me anything else. He just makes for the door, turning back only when he’s already through the threshold.

“Go get the girl, son.”

And then he’s gone.

Twenty-Five

Kinsley

“Kinsley,canyoupleasepass the potatoes?” Mom asks as we sit around the gauchely dressed dining room table for Christmas Day dinner.

I hand her the steaming dish with a small smile, and we collapse back into uncomfortable silence. It’s been this way since we got home last night—an endless stretch of awkwardness and pregnant pauses.

But it’s nothing I’m not used to.

Since Bex died, my parents and I have lost the ability to talk to each other. In many ways, we’ve forgotten how to be a family. And I know I’m partly to blame for that. I’ve let my resentment fester and grow into a wedge so heavy I don’t know how I’ll ever shift it out from between us.

But it’s their fault too.

I know they experienced something no parents ever should, but it’s like the death of one daughter made them forget the life of the other. It’s hard to pretend everything is fine when I feel like they’d rather it was Bexley sitting here instead of me.

We finish dinner, and just like last night, I clean without appreciation. And once I’m done, I join them in the living room for the ceremonial gift exchange. Thankfully, I’d already bought them something before even knowing I would be spending the holidays here.

The tree is depressingly desolate, the way it has been for the last several Christmases. It used to be a tradition that Bexley and I would decorate the tree each year. We’d go with Papa to the tree farm and pick out the largest one that would fit inside our house. And then we’d attack it with all the decorations we owned—bells, baubles, and glittering tinsel—until it was such a chaotic mess that it looked as if Buddy the Elf had vomited all over it.

Mom recalls it now. She looks at the barren branches and sad, empty spindles with nostalgia swimming in her eyes. She laughs as she remembers how hideous the tree always looked when my sister and I were done with it, as if it was her favorite part of her whole year.

She doesn’t talk about how Bexley used to steal all the best decorations before I had a chance to get one. Or how she’d shove me out of the way to make it hard for me to join in. Mom doesn’t remember any of that. I don’t bother reminding her.

Instead, I dig out the gift I brought with me from under the tree and hand it to her.

“It’s for both of you,” I say and sit back in my armchair.

Flames burn bright from the open fireplace that has been my parents’ pride and joy since the day they bought the house. It’s set into a hearth made of light-wash stone, and a gilded mantel sits proudly atop it that sparkles when the light hits it right.

That’s what I focus on as Mom and Papa open their gift.

“Oh.” Mom’s gasp echoes through the room.

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