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Kier

Devon, July 2018

The first thing I notice when I open the van door the next morning is Penn’s face. Not the crumpled blue shirt, half tucked in, his bloodshot eyes or stubble, all to be expected after his stag, but his expression.

It’s set, his shut-down face. His face when he’s trying to keep it all in.

His eyes flat, emotionless. It scares me.

Opening the door wider, I gesture him inside, letting in a shot of sea air. It’s not cold, but I rub my arms, feeling the raised bumps of gooseflesh.

Woody throws himself at him, but Penn barely responds, hovering in the doorway. I feel my cheeks growing hot, acutely aware of the stale smell of alcohol in the van.

‘Zeph here?’ Penn says finally, peering in.

‘He’s still asleep.’ I cast a look towards our sleeping area, the curtain still closed.

‘You want to go outside and talk so we don’t disturb him? ’

‘Sure.’ I grab a cardigan from the side, draping it over my shoulders. Penn doesn’t sit on the chairs, so I don’t either, awkwardly hovering in front.

Despite my glasses, the light out here is blinding. I squint, hold my hands to my face.

Already I can feel the headache starting up again: pulses of pain criss-crossing beneath my skull like electrical currents.

‘So,’ Penn starts and then stops, eyes travelling across my face. ‘How do you feel?’ No attempt at a joke about alcohol consumption or a hard night – a genuine question.

‘Not great. Too much to drink.’

Penn nods. ‘Kier,’ he starts and then stops again, lip wobbling, like there’s a mountain of words inside him that he’s struggling to climb. ‘Look, there’s no point beating around the bush. Last night … it was ours, mine and Mila’s. The argument, fine, I can get past that, especially with drink involved, but what I’m struggling with is what you said to Mila.’

‘Mila?’ I blink. Flickers of the night appear. I don’t want to remember, but I can. Blurred by the alcohol, but it’s there. The moments after Zeph left me by the bar. Mila finding me, asking what was wrong. Telling her about the fight and then …

‘Yes.’ He takes a breath, as if summoning up the strength to carry on. ‘You asked her if she was sure, Kier. Sure about us. Sure if getting married was the right thing.’ As he rubs a hand over his face, his expression is pained. ‘You know how stressful the wedding planning’s been … everything with the caterer. I don’t get why you’d want to add to that by causing conflict.’

I feel my cheeks colour. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight, Penn. Just shooting my mouth, and I wasn’t meaning getting married to you specifically. I meant anyone. Zeph and I, we’d had a fight, and I was thinking about Dad, how men—’ I stop, not sure what I’m trying to say.

There’s a long pause. ‘But I’m not “men,”’ Penn says quietly. ‘I’m your twin, Kier. You need to get past Dad, everything that happened. I know it’s hard, but you need to try, in some way, to move on.’

I’m silent for a minute. He makes it sound so easy. Moving on. ‘It was different for you, Penn. After it happened, no one looked at you the way they looked at me.’

‘No, they didn’t, and do you want to know why? It wasn’t because they saw something dark and awful inside you, it was simply the fact you looked like Mum, Kier. That’s it. You looked like her, so you were an easy target for a bunch of dumb, spiteful kids. No one’s doing it now.’

He’s right. No one’s doing it now.

But I am. Every day, I’m looking at myself.

Watching. Wondering.

‘I just want the lead-up to the wedding to be as smooth as it can be, Kier. No added stress.’ Penn jams his hands in his pockets. ‘Look, I’d better go and nurse Mila’s hangover before this afternoon.’ He looks at me with the first hint of a smile. ‘You’re still coming, right? Last look at the venue before the big day?’

Squeezing my eyes shut, I blink back tears.

A lifeline. It feels like he’s throwing me a lifeline.