“So . . . what do we do?”
Her eyes snap to mine. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . what do we do? What’s going to happen to Owen? And Hannah . . . we can’t just not listen to her. You’ve always said that we have to listen to girls no matter—”
“He’s ours, Mara,” Mom says, a kind of quiet fury edging her words. “He’s my son. And we love him. That’s what we do.”
I nod and she presses a kiss to my cheek as she moves past me and down the stairs. I watch her go, my feet aching to follow her, to make this simple for me, too. But I can’t move toward her. Instead, I close myself in my room. I check my phone and find a voice mail from Mom and three missed texts from Owen.
Where are you?
Mom’s freaking out & Dad’s gone totally comatose. Come and save me.
Mar? Please.
I stare at the screen, a cold numbness spreading through my limbs. Then I power down the phone and toss it on top of my dresser. After I change and get into bed, I flip over onto my stomach and pull the curtain back from the window, searching for the stars. They’re dim tonight, dulled by the bright moon.
Several feet down on the porch roof, a dark form blocks out a few distant trees.
Owen.
He sits with his arms resting on his knees, head arced to the sky until he turns toward me. At first I’m not sure if he can see me through my window, but then our eyes catch, the moon reflecting off the glasses he wears at night after he takes out his contacts. I have a matching pair perched on my nose right now. We share horrible eyesight, inherited from Dad. Owen inclines his head, a clear invitation. He looks so small, like a kid stuffed into a teenage boy’s body. Even from here, I can feel him asking, waiting, needing me to come spin him a story.
And I want to. I want to hug his neck and let him blow a teasing raspberry into my hair. I want to go back to a few days ago when he made me laugh. When we found ourselves in the sky. Owen has always been loud and kind of crude with his friends, but that’s not who he is with me. With me, he’s a boy made of stars, soft and light and safe. He always has been.
Mom used to tell us stories at bedtime. One of my first memories is snuggling with her while she ran her fingers through my hair, my floppy pink stuffed bunny clutched to my chest. Owen was curled against Mom’s other side and we were all piled on our parents’ giant bed. Our skin was bath-fresh and our pajamas matched—?yellow stars and comets streaking across a navy background. We were the star twins, ready for our next adventure.
“Once upon a time,” Mom said, “a brother and a sister lived with the stars. They were happy and had wild adventures exploring the sky . . .”
For as long as I could remember, the stories were a thing with our family. The twins born in June, Gemini soaring through the sky. There were even several years when Mom put Happy Birthday, Gemini on our cake, little yellow icing stars dotting the chocolate. Time passed, we got older and too big and cool to snuggle with Mom for bedtime tales, but we never let go of those stories. They were—?are—?part of our blood. Owen and I took them over, told new stories for laughs, as passive-aggressive jabs at each other when we argued, as comfort, as a way to remember we weren’t alone.
I pull the curtain back a little more, my eyes locked with my twin’s.
I believe him, I do, but my body won’t let me move any closer. I tell myself I’m just tired, exhausted from everything with Charlie and wondering why why why Hannah would say something like this. I press my hand against the window. He lifts his hand too, mirroring mine. I offer him a weary smile.
And then I let the curtain fall back into place.
Chapter Seven
BLUISH MORNING LIGHT splays across my face. I reach out my hand, hoping for something warm and soft, but I find only a handful of wrinkled sheets.
I sit up alone in my bed, tank top damp against my skin, and try to press the disappointment that Charlie didn’t sleep over away from my eyes. Of course she didn’t. After we started dating, our parents put a stop to sleepovers pretty quickly, but we’d push our curfews to the limit and send gooey good-morning texts as soon as the sun split the dark.
It took forever for me to fall asleep last night, half terrified I’d dream about Owen and Hannah and something I didn’t want to see. I don’t remember dreaming at all, but the ache in the center of my chest is still thin and sharp.
Tossing my covers back, I throw on a pair of leggings and the first tunic dress I wrap my hands around in my closet. It’s still early, the sun low and winking through my window, and the house is quiet as I tiptoe downstairs. Too quiet. I stand in the kitchen, the coffeemaker still idle, everything in its place.
And nothing in its place. Nothing like my house should feel.
I shiver, finding my school bag in the hall, my keys, my jacket. I take Owen’s and my car and drive to school an hour before I’m supposed to be there. Mom texts me not long after and I tell her I have a project to finish up.
I don’t think she buys it.
Family meeting tonight, no excuses is the only response I get.
I cut the engine but leave the music blaring, some female songwriter Charlie introduced me to, with a smooth voice and a name I can’t remember right now. “She’s the perfect blend of gloom and pop,” Charlie had said a few months ago. We had just decided to try dating, and even though we’d been best friends for almost three years, everything was new and stomach-fluttering and wild.
I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes, trying not to think about her. But every time I succeed, my mind goes places that are dark and covered up and knotted instead. Not exactly what I was going for.
