Page 126 of When We Were Young

That’s right. Frankie’s older brother, Ethan, tagged along. It’s no mystery to me that this kid is here because he doesn’t trust us. He’s made it clear he doesn’t like letting other people take care of his brother.

“Is he your dad?” I hear Frankie ask Simon.

I make sure my face doesn’t betray any reaction, but my body tenses as I wait for Simon’s response.

“No, but he likes my mom. I think he likes me too, but he really likes my mom.” They both giggle.

A few seconds after the laughter stops, Simon speaks again. “I don’t have a dad. He went to heaven when I was a baby.”

There’s no sadness in Simon’s voice. Lizette says he doesn’t remember his parents, which breaks her heart.

“I don’t have a dad either. Well, I have a dad, but he’s real mean, so he ain’t allowed to see us anymore.”

Every protective instinct in me stands at attention. What kind of asshole would be mean to this sweet kid?

“You got a brother?” Frankie asks.

“No. No brothers or sisters. I bet it’s fun to have another kid around.”

“Yeah. Sometimes people think my brother is mean like my dad, but he ain’t. He’s just careful. He doesn’t want anyone to hurt us again.”

“Who hurt you?” Simon asks.

“My dad.”

“I’m sorry that your dad did that to you. I know I don’t have one, but dads aren’t supposed to hurt their family.”

Shit. These kids are breaking my heart.

“Hey, anyone want a popsicle?” Lester says from the other side of the boys. He glances at me over their heads, and the look on his face says he heard the conversation as well.

Both boys politely ask for a popsicle—grape for Simon and cherry for Frankie.

Ethan sits in the grass about twenty feet away. He’s reading a book, but I’ve seen him glance our way a few times.

“Young man,” Lester yells to him. “You want a popsicle?”

Ethan looks up at him, squinting in the sunlight, and shakes his head.

“Mr. Lester,” Frankie says, “he likes blue popsicles. He’s probably just... Well, he likes blue popsicles.”

“Me too,” Hayden says. “They’re my favorite.”

“I forgot you were here,” I joke.

In truth, my twin has never been a big talker, but he’s been much quieter since his wife left him.

“Hilarious,” he answers. He digs in the cooler and grabs two of the blue icy popsicles, the kind that come in a long plastic tube that you push up from the bottom until it’s all gone.

I turn my head and watch as my brother walks over to where Ethan sits. He drops a popsicle in the boy’s lap and plops himself down on the ground a few feet from the teenager.

When I glance back at the younger boys, Frankie is watching Ethan and Hayden, studying them almost.

“Don’t worry,” I tell Frankie. “Hayden isn’t really as crabby as he seems.” I make crab claw hands with my fingers.

The younger boys bust out laughing.

With their fishing poles propped on the ground next to them, they eat their popsicles and chatter away about anything and everything. It’s the most I’ve seen Simon talk in one setting.