“Julian has decided to fill your sister in on my childhood.” I cross my legs at the ankles and balance the soda bottle in the center of my hand. “She must be easily amused.”
A softness touches Ember’s cheeks and her mouth curves. “You have no idea. Last year we were at the novelty shop in town and she bought some of those Mad Libs we used to do when we were kids. Do you remember those?” And when I nod she continues. “I swear we were doing those things all night and she couldn’t stop laughing. And they had to be Star Wars Mad Libs. Her Han Solo infatuation knows no bounds.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t take much, but that’s one of the things I love about her honestly. We kind of balance each other out that way. At times I can be a bit too serious and she helps me lighten things up.”
I try like hell not to grin but it turns into an epic fail. “No, really. I hadn’t noticed.”
She huffs out a grunt. “Isn’t that kind of like the pot calling the kettle black?”
And… she’s got a point.
“Touché. So….” This is the longest interaction I’ve had recently with anyone besides my brother. Anxiety curls in my stomach and I scan the room hoping words fall into my lap. I slide my gaze back to hers, waving my hand from left to right. “So… no Mickey paraphernalia today?”
She sweeps her legs under her knees, leaning back against the sofa. “Paraphernalia. That’s quite a word. I haven’t heard it in a long time.”
I take a swig of soda then place it down on the side table. “Remember? I read. So I use big words.”
“Oh, right.” Her lips turn down in apology at my sarcastic tone. “Sorry about that.” She twirls her ponytail, biting down on her lip. “I have a tendency to say whatever is on my mind.” Then she lifts her arm and taps a finger against her wrist. “But, yes. Mickey also helps me keep the time.” I shake my head in amusement and am about to reply when Avery struts by me looking like the Cheshire cat.
“I know stuff now. Very interesting stuff.”
Fucking great.
“Ooohhh,” Ember pipes up with mock enthusiasm. “I want to know stuff, too.”
I jump up from the chair before this gets out of hand. “I’m going to grab some CD’s.”
Thankfully by the time I come back, the focus is off of me and onto more fascinating subjects. I traipse to the other side of the living room and load the player with several CD’s. When the sound of Coldplay’s Shiver pours from the speakers, I close my eyes as the music washes over me. Julian brings me back from the dark place I retreat to when I hear this song.
“Do you think we can hear something a bit more upbeat little brother?”
I twist at the waist to meet his stare. “What would you prefer?” I mock. “Taylor Swift?”
Ember lets out a breathy laugh. “What’s wrong with Taylor Swift? I’ll have you know we’ve seen her in concert three times.”
“Well, that’s three times too many then,” I scoff, and she laughs again. But Julian’s gaze lacks humor. “Fine. Let me see what I can do.” I push the button to mix up the CD’s when Ember’s words freeze me in my tracks.
“I love that painting. It reminds me a lot of the Impressionist era. Who painted it?”
My eyes move to the painting directly to the left of the staircase—the only picture on the otherwise blank walls of our living room—the one I fought with Dad about for hours because I was determined to hang it there. It depicts a single bench in Central Park surrounded by leaves; reds, yellows, oranges. Dabs of bright color that make it come to life. While it’s impossible to see due to the abstract nature of the painting, Mom, Julian, and me are sitting on that bench. She painted that after we returned from a visit there. Our faces are no longer recognizable. Her blend of colors and that “blotting” method as she once called it, make us invisible.
That was a good moment. I remember how happy she was; the way she chased us around the park, her laughter following us. The pit in my stomach becomes a cavern. She doesn’t smile much anymore. Nor does she paint.
I fight to take breath into my lungs, never mind form a response. She no longer recalls that day. But I can remember it enough for the both of us.
Julian clears his throat. “Our mom painted it.” His voice is hoarse although I seem to be the only one who detects it.
“Really?” Ember’s face flashes with enthusiasm. “I’d love to talk with her about it.”
Julian lifts his chin to meet my gaze. “You can’t, because she’s—”
“Away,” I cut in. “She travels a lot.” My face burns bright red from the lie and from Julian’s narrowed glare. Regardless, what’s going on with Mom is private and isn’t anyone else’s business.
An uncomfortable silence follows until Ember breaks it and Julian finally takes his eyes off of me. “She’s really talented.”