Page 90 of Our Secrets and Scars

I commissioned an artist I found through social media to paint a family portrait. It’s a depiction of the four of us sitting on a park bench beneath blooming cherry blossom trees, my parents in the middle with Bexley and I on either side of them. I had her paint Bexley as she’d look now, which wasn’t difficult considering she’s my replica minus the strawberry scars.

I thought they could hang it above the fireplace.

“Kinsley, this is…” Papa’s voice trails off. His accent is always thicker when he’s emotional.

They both stare a while at the framed canvas that set me back a couple hundred bucks that I couldn’t afford. It was worth it though. I might harbor a shit ton of indignation, but that doesn’t stop me loving them.

It doesn’t stop me from continuing to try to win their attention and approval in whatever ways I can.

“Thank you,” Mom whispers, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “This is beautiful.”

“It’s no big deal,” I say casually, but inside I’m glowing that they’re pleased with it.

“Okay,okay, it’syour turn.” Papa hands me a red gift-wrapped box, about four inches in length and height, with an oversized golden bow stuck to the top of it.

Mom smiles at me excitedly as he does so, her eyes still brimming, but at least her cheeks are dry now.

I tear through the paper to find a black jewelry box. The branding is expensive-looking, sleek, and sophisticated. It makes my heart skip. They never get me something so… nice. Sovaluable. I open the lid.

And I freeze.

A gold bangle rests on a foam-like base, elegant and beautiful in its simplicity. From it, hangs a single charm with a letter engraved into it.

“I don’t understand,” I say slowly, staring at the inscription in confusion.

“We wanted to get you something nice this year since you started college and everything,” Mom responds.

“But it’s aB.”

“What?”

I look up at her then, and I see it. The surprise, the hesitation. And I know immediately that the engravement of that letter was unintentional.

“The letter engraved on it,” I keep my voice as steady as possible, though I’m breaking apart inside, “it’s aB. Not aKfor Kinsley.”

Papa fixes Mom with a panicked stare, but she looks blankly at the box in my hands. I watch as her confusion changes to understanding and then finally melts into guilt.

“That’s—that’s not—the jewelers must have made a mistake,” she stutters.

I scoff, the sound laced with pain. “Sure, Mom. Thejewelersmade a mistake.”

“Yes, yes, they must have done.” She stands abruptly, her hands twitching erratically as she clasps them in front of her. “I’ll call them. I’ll call them now and get it sorted.”

Papa tugs on her shirt to sit her down beside him again. “It’s Christmas day. The shop will be closed.”

The prickle of tears in my eyes grows too much, and I turn my face away to hide them. Standing, I mutter quietly that I need a moment and hurriedly leave the room, rushing up the stairs to my bedroom and collapsing onto the twin bed.

My own mother got my name wrong.

If I had any doubt in my mind that she wished it was me who died in the car that night, I certainly don’t anymore. It’s a fact as clear as theBcarved into that bangle.Bfor Bexley. My dead twin. The golden child. The daughter whose life supersedes mine even in death.

Tears fall like a rainstorm, torrential and unstopping. They fall in a wild stream down my face as I sob into the pillow, clutching it to my chest.

I need Holden.

The thought hits me like a heart attack. It winds me, forcing the air from my lungs as my soul aches with the need to feel his arms around me. The memory of his betrayal is silenced as I crave the comfort of him. I remember nothing about the pain he’s caused or what he’s taken from me, only his ability to make me feel safe just from breathing in his cedarwood scent.

But then it comes rushing back.

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