Page 11

Ethan isn’t a big guy by any means. He’s a scrapper, as Josh tells me. With wide green eyes, thick black lashes that mirror my own, and dark wavy hair, he’s like a teddy bear. An absolutely adorable one. Which is a compliment to me too since we’re twins. The funny thing about that is Ethan was born on September third at 11:58 p.m. and I was born at 12:03 a.m. on September fourth, which means we don’t share the same birthday and he can always hold it over my head that he is in fact, my big brother.
I have to say, growing up it was nice not to have the same birthday since we constantly struggled to find our own identity apart from being twins—people tends to group every aspect of your lives together. When you’re three, it isn’t an issue, but when you become teenagers, it’s a major downer to share your birthday with your brother.
Reluctantly, I set my shot glass down and make my way over to the band. I watch them banter back and forth for a moment about how they’re going to change up the set list. They will do this forever if I don’t interject soon.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “How about some Miranda Lambert? Everyone gets down with her.” If I had to compare my voice to anyone’s, it’d be Miranda.
Ethan turns his head to the side and cocks an eyebrow at me, scratching his jaw. “Which one?”
“How about ‘Tin Man’?” I’m petrified of forgetting the lines. Been there, done that. “I know that one so I think I should do one I know.”
Paul, their drummer, hits his drum sticks against my shoulder playfully. His clouded eyes rake down my body and then he smirks. He looks high. He has a thing for the herbal remedies, if you know what I mean. “C’mon, girly, give ’em a show.”
I stare at him. I’m not sure what that means. My dress? Probably. It’s so short I can feel a breeze up there. Yanking on thehem, I fidget and try to keep from letting my heels dig into the dirt beneath my feet.
In a quick movement, I hear the gravel crunching as Ethan shoves Paul’s shoulder. “Knock it off.”
Paul laughs and rolls his shoulders forward as he leans down to pick up his sticks he dropped. “We doin’ this or what?”
Ethan’s eyes drift to mine. “Showtime, sis.”
Ugh. The next few minutes are a blur. With drinks in their hands, the guys slowly walk up the steps and leave me in the shadow behind it. I wait there for a second, my heart in my throat. My hand meets the rail. “Here goes nothing.”
The light is dim on the stage as I walk out, but I can make out the crowd gathering. There has to be at least a hundred people, if not more, waiting for us to begin. Fuck. I can feel my heart beating in my ears and the chunks rising.
You can do this, Evie, stay calm!I chant to myself, taking a step to the microphone, coming into view of the crowd for the first time. The stage lights burst to life, blinding me as the crowd whistles and applauds. And let me tell you, the whistles are from men. All of them.
Damn Frankie and this fucking dress.
I feel ridiculous wearing something like this at The Point when the guys get to wear jeans and worn T-shirts. I’d rather be wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Nervously, I tug on it, trying to make it longer.
Fear pricks my skin, but not from the obvious nerves of being on stage. My nerves are for the one in the crowd lingering near the fence. The one who thought it’d be okay to kick me in the stomach and tell me repeatedly it was my fault I lost the baby. The one who took my trust and broke it completely.
His eyes lock on mine and I don’t see anger in them. I see devastation, maybe even agony because my last text to him?
It’s over. For good.
Will he believe me? Probably not. Will he try to get me back? Without a doubt. But in this moment, this very second we’re in,I get a glimpse of the boy in him tearful and regretful. The one who knows he’s wrong and hates the hole inside him he will never be able to fill. In the distance, he tilts his head and looks up at me. Whatever it is that’s going through his head, I think it’s resonating with him. His expression fills me with guilt, and it shouldn’t. Despite what’s happened in the past between us, no matter how much he’s hurt me, I care for him. I want him to get help.
I wonder if that’s why my mom kept taking my dad back. Because she thought she could help. With another heavy breath, he mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”
For what? I think. The first time? The second? The time after?
A thickness fills the air and I shift my gaze from his. It’s suddenly difficult to take a full breath—as if pain has weight to it. Beside me, Ethan begins the guitar riff of the opening notes of the song. I reach for the microphone, my hands shaking. Drawing in a deep breath, I do what I said I never would. I stand there on stage in front of about a hundred people. At first, it doesn’t seem so bad, and then the anxiety stirs and memories of being in the field before me take over. My childhood, my life like that photograph is captured in this field. A time when my life made sense. A time when happiness wasn’t punishment but evidence of selfless love.
7
GRAYSON
After three Jack and Cokes, and two straight up, I’m feeling pretty fucking good. Finally relaxed, a buzz of excitement rushes through me. I make my way into the field scattered with hay, where hundreds line the lip of the stage.
Sooner than I want, Frankie finds me, her arms snaking around my waist when the band surfaces. “Did you walk up to her yet?”
I side-eye her. “What do you think?”
Her eyes squint in the corners a little. “Seeing how she’s taking the stage, probably not.”
“You’re just as annoying as I remember.”