Well, honestly, it was that way up until Mom died. The twin-same thing was Mom's gig, I guess. I never really thought about this until now, but it's true. It wasn't until Mom died that Eden and I started really figuring out who we were apart from the other. I mean, I was always more into arts and crafts and stuff, and Eden was very obviously musically talented from the time she was, like, four. She picked up Dad's guitar, the thing was literally bigger than she was, but she sat down with it on her lap and started playing with the strings. It wasn't like she started playing Brahms or anything, but it was obvious she had musical talent. But that was really the end of our individuality until Mom died. Everything else we did had to be exactly the same.
And now I think I'm swinging in the opposite direction, you know? I just want my OWN things, just for me. Things that are only for me, only mine. I want to be unique. I know every person feels that way, wanting to be unique, but when you're a twin and someone else looks identical to you and shares your every facial expression, your verbal tics and mannerisms, uniqueness becomes even more of a big deal.
This thing with Will could really be a problem between us, but I just don't know what to do about it. I don't think she wants Billy for herself, but he's kind of like one of those guys at school that every girl has a crush on and he doesn't seem to realize it. Or if he does, he acts like he doesn't know, and he's just a great actor. I don't know. I honestly think he doesn't realize it, personally. He's not at all arrogant, especially considering how rich he is and the fact that his dad is some famous movie producer or something. I'm not sure. I don't follow that shit, but everyone at school makes a big deal about his dad. He was really cool with me. He didn't act like he was arrogant or cocky or whatever. He was just cool.
It was my first date. It kind of happened by accident, though.
Is it weird for me to tell you about this stuff? I won't if it bugs you.
I hope you have a good summer at your gramps's farm.
Write back soon.
Your friend,
Ever
Caden
It was almost two in the morning, and I was about to faint from exhaustion. Gramps, Uncle Gerry, and two of the other ranch hands and I had spent the last twenty hours on horseback. A section of fence had been damaged in a storm and several hundred head of Gramps's best breeding stock had gotten loose, scattering apart over the space of several miles. It had taken us three days to catch them all, herd them back into a fenced-in pasture, and fix the broken fence, and we'd been out checking the rest of the perimeter for breaks since then.
Finally back at the stables, I slid off Jersey's back and led her to her stall. All I wanted to do was collapse into bed, but you didn't quit until the job was done, and you always, always took care of your horse before yourself. So, despite the fact that I was so tired I could have slept in the pile of hay in the corner of Jersey's stall, I removed her saddle and blanket, hung them up in the tack room, and set about currying and brushing the tall dun's coat. She whiskered and murmured as I made her coat shine, and when I finished she nuzzled me with her warm nose, nibbling at my shirt with her flexible lips, hunting for a treat.
I patted her neck. "I'll bring you some apples tomorrow, girl, okay?" I scratched her ear, and she whiskered again, bobbing her head as if she'd understood what I said.
I made sure she had feed and a full water tank before latching her stall and dragging my sore carcass out of the barn and up to the big house, where Gram had coffee and hot, fresh stew waiting. Gramps and the others were still in the stables, so it was just me and Grams in the kitchen.
I slurped at the coffee in between shoveling bites of stew into my face. Gram slid into the chair beside me, sipping from a tiny porcelain mug filled with tea, the string and tag of the tea bag draped over the edge of the mug and wrapped around the handle. She watched me eat for a moment, her gaze thoughtful.
"What?" I asked. "Something wrong?"
She shook her head and smiled, her gray-brown hair tied into a neat bun at the base of her head. "No, sweetie. Just glad you're here this summer."
There was still something in her eyes, though, a spark of something. "What is it, Grams? For real. You've got something on your mind, and I know it."
She laughed and reached into the pocket of her robe. "This came for you today. It's from an Ever Eliot." She smirked at me, her eyes sharp and knowing as she handed me the purple envelope. "It's scented stationery, Cade. Pretty fancy." Grams had married a rancher and she'd lived her entire life here, but she'd come from a wealthy West Coast family. She was educated and perceptive, wise, and unfailingly polite.
I took the letter, blushing. "It's not like that. She's just a friend."
Grams continued to smirk at me. "Friends don't send friends letters in scented stationery."
"Ever and I have been pen pals since camp last summer. The perfumey letters are just her thing, I think. I don't know. We're friends."
"Pen pals, huh?" Gram sipped her tea, then reached out a finger and tugged the letter across the table and examined it. "This is expensive stationery, you know. Engraved and personalized, scented. The paper is basically linen, it's such high quality."
I'd never noticed any of that. "Huh. Never really realized that. All I know is she sprays perfume on it before she mails 'em to me."
Grams laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh, god, you're such a typical man, Caden Monroe. She doesn't spray it with perfume, honey--the paper is scented. Made to smell that way by the manufacturer. It's actually hard to find these days." She smiled lovingly at me. "I think it's wonderful that you two are pen pals, real, honest-to-goodness pen pals."
"Oh. That makes more sense, I guess. I thought it was weird. It's still weird, just less weird." I rose to dish up a second bowl of stew. "She lost her mom about two years ago, and I--" My throat closed, and I had to redirect. "We just have some things in common, is all."
The sounds of Gramps, Uncle Gerry, Ben, and Miguel laughing as they approached the house floated through the cracked window. Grams gestured at the letter. "You'd best put that in your pocket. If the others see that, they'll never let you hear the end of it."
I stuffed the envelope into my back pocket and tugged the tail of my T-shirt down over it, waving at the guys as I trudged upstairs to my room. I closed the door, locked it, and collapsed onto my bed with the letter on my chest. I opened it, read it. I had to read it through twice before the contents really sank in.
Billy Harper. Date. First kiss.
I felt dizzy.
Billy Harper. Date. First kiss.
I'd told Grams that Ever and I were just friends, just pen pals. I knew that's all it was. We spent some time together at an arts camp a year ago. We'd traded a few letters. So why did I feel betrayed somehow? Why did I feel like I'd lost something, knowing Ever had gone on a date, had kissed a guy?
I shouldn't feel that way. I had no right to feel that way, and I knew it. But knowing I shouldn't feel it didn't change the fact that I did. I read the letter through again, and again. I wanted to write back, to tell her how I felt, even if I wasn't even sure exactly how I was feeling. Off-kilter, like suddenly I was off-balance.
I had a sketchbook on my nightstand. I reached out and snagged it, opened it to a blank page, and started writing. I didn't think it through--I just wrote.
Ever,
It sounds like your sis has some recurring self-esteem issues. Do you think it's connected to losing your mom? I wish I could help you with that. I just don't know. We all have to find contentment in who we are as individuals. I don't know much, but I know that. She can't be you, and you can't be her. She has to live her life and be who she's supposed to be.
I don't have any siblings, but I'd imagine jealousy like you described in your letter seems like it might be pretty common? If she's got self-esteem issues, then that may be showing up in this thing with that guy in the form of jealousy. Maybe she doesn't feel like she'll ever have what you have, because she's not comfortable with how she l
ooks, or whatever? I'm just a guy, okay? I'm not a psychologist, obviously, and you two are girls, and no guy ever really understands any girl. But that's my two cents on the subject.
I got to Wyoming just fine. I had to get away from Dad. He's...not doing well. It's hard for me to watch that, and I needed to get away from it. Honestly, the longer I'm here, the more I don't want to leave. And you know, there's not much keeping me in Detroit, except school, and I can transfer. There's a high school in Casper. Maybe I'll just stay here. I love it here. It's peaceful. Gramps respects me as a worker, and is giving me more and more responsibility, and Uncle Gerry is pretty cool too. Grams is...Grams. Steady, solid, and always baking cookies or pies. Always has coffee and hot food ready when we come back from the range. She knows things, too. She knows when I'm upset in a way even Gramps doesn't.
As far as your discussion of identity goes, I think you have a pretty unique view of the topic. I've never had the problem you do, obviously, since I'm an only child. But...do I know who I am? I don't know how to answer that. Am I defined by who my parents are? Or were, since Mom is dead, and Dad is...absent. I mean, they raised me, they infused me with their beliefs and morals, gave me their DNA and the genetics that make up my talents and what I look like. But I'm also a product of society, right? I mean, our society is different now than when our parents were kids, and the structure and fabric of our society is a huge factor in creating who we are, right? But none of that says who I am. I'm Caden Connor Monroe, son of Aidan and Janice. I'm an artist. I guess I'm also kind of a cowboy, too. But who else am I? What else am I? I don't know, and I don't even know how to start answering that question.
I'm not a kid here. In Wyoming, I mean. I don't think I'm a kid at all. Mom dying grew me up. Driving to Wyoming did, too, in a way. I mean, it was just a road trip, but somehow, the process of making that decision and carrying it out on my own eradicated the last bit of my childhood. I'm expected to get up at dawn with Gramps and Uncle Gerry and Ben, Miguel, Riley, and all the other ranch hands. I'm expected to pull my weight, and as Gramps's grandson, as I get older and learn more, I'm also given more responsibility. I work from sunup to sundown, seven days a week. Before sunup and after sundown some days. I actually just got back from a twenty-hour nonstop ride around the entire perimeter of Gramps's fence line, fixing breaks and collecting some horses that had gotten out. I mean that literally when I say twenty hours nonstop. We started at 4 a.m., and it's past 2 a.m. now, and we just got in. I'm still in my boots as I write this, but I'm literally so tired the words are swimming on the page. I'm surprised it's legible at all, honestly. I don't mind the work, to be honest. It keeps me busy, keeps my mind occupied so I can't get stuck thinking about Mom and Dad.
Anyway, I'm gonna pass out now. Talk to you soon.
Caden
I didn't mention Billy Harper, or the date, or the kiss. I never would. Not my business. My business was breaking horses, foaling, herding. My business would be school. Art. Surviving. My business was not Ever Eliot and who she went out with or who she kissed. She was just my pen pal.
I put the letter in an envelope and sealed it, then passed out.
The next few weeks went quickly. I got a letter back from Ever, but it was short and kind of empty. She talked about her latest painting project, an attempt to re-create a Monet piece stroke for stroke, color for color. I wrote back describing what an average day as a ranch hand on a working horse ranch was like. She didn't mention Billy Harper again, and I didn't ask.
Weeks turned into months, and then the start of the school year was approaching, and I had to decide whether to go back to Michigan.
"You're goin' back, Cade," Gramps said, when I asked him what he thought. "You ain't quittin' school, that's for fuckin' sure."
"No, Gramps. I mean I'd finish the last two years in Casper. Then I'd be here in the early mornings and evenings to help out, not just the summer months."
"Oh. Well, I guess you'd best discuss that with your Pops. You know you're welcome here, and I'd honestly be glad for the year-round help, as long as you finish school."
"Dad won't care."
Gramps frowned. "He's still your father, Caden Connor Monroe, and you ain't an adult yet. You still owe him the respect of askin' him, tell him what you're thinking."
I sighed. "I know. I just...I don't want to go back. I'm...I'm worried he's worse. He hasn't even called once. Hasn't texted. Nothing. Years past, he'd call a couple times a week to check in."
Gramps shook his head. "I know, son, I know. But you gotta make the effort. I'll fly you there, and if you decide to come back, I'll help you move. I can spare about two weeks, most. We'll rent a truck and drive you out here, if it comes to that."
"Gramps, I don't have nothin' to move. Nothin' at that house means anything to me. It's just a bed and an empty dresser. I brought everything that was really mine that I cared about with me."
Gramps bought me a one-way ticket to Michigan. I called Dad from the tarmac as the plane was taxiing, and he agreed to pick me up. He sounded like he had before: apathetic, absent. When he showed up an hour and a half later, he looked thinner than I'd ever seen him. His eyes were haggard, tired-looking. His skin was wrinkled, sagging. He hadn't shaved, and even his scalp, which he was normally fastidious about keeping egg-smooth, was stubbled with receding gray stubble.
I tried not to stare at him as he drove us home--back to his house. I wasn't sure where home was anymore. Home used to be this house, the one in Farmington where I'd grown up. But now...the ranch seemed more like home.
When we pulled into the driveway, he switched the car off but didn't move to get out. He just sat with his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield, focused on nothing. Seeing something I couldn't see, maybe.
"Dad?"
He started, glanced at me. "Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
He didn't answer right away. "I'm tired, Cade. Haven't been sleeping well. Not for a long time. Don't sleep much at all. Can't eat much, either."
"You're not sick, are you?"
"Don't think so. Just...I'm tired. I just don't have any energy."
I had no response for that. I waited for something to say, something to do, but came up empty. Eventually, I simply left him there in the truck and grabbed my single overnight bag from the bed and waited on the porch. It wasn't until we were inside and Dad was halfheartedly stirring and adding spices to some chili he'd left simmering while he came to pick me up that realization struck him.
"You only brought one bag." His voice was thin and sandpapery, a drastic change from the gruff and stentorian boom I'd grown up hearing.
I shrugged. "Yeah."
"Care to explain?"
I twirled my shading pencil around my middle finger, a trick I'd worked to perfect during long boring hours in history and math classes. "I'm--I guess I'm pretty set on moving out to Wyoming permanently for the rest of high school."
Dad didn't answer for a very long time. I almost started wondering if he'd heard me. "Oh, really?" He set the lid back on the chili and rubbed his scalp with his palm. "What makes you say that?"
"I like it there. I...well, I don't really have any friends here, and--I'd just rather be there."
"I see." He turned away from me, snatching a paper towel from the roll and wiping the counter. "Just like that, huh?"
"Look, Dad, I--all there is here for me is you and school. There, I'm working, and I can draw at school and stuff, and I--"
"I get it." He was scrubbing vigorously at a spot on the counter, although I didn't see anything on the counter that needed cleaning. "You need me to sign off on the transfer?"
"I guess I was thinking maybe you could emancipate me."
His eyes registered shock, hurt, and I winced to think I'd hurt him. "Why?"
"Just because it would be easiest. I'm basically on my own anyway. Gramps will be paying me ranch hand wage, and--"
"No. There's no need for that. You're sixteen. I'm fine with you moving to Wyoming, as l
ong as Gramps is okay with it. But I'm alive, and I'm available. I get that you want your space and don't need me anymore, but I'm not going to emancipate you."
"It's not that, Dad." I didn't want to say what I was thinking, why I'd even considered emancipation.
"Then what is it?"
"It's just..." I couldn't bring myself to say that I was worried for him, for his health. For his...longevity.
"Move to Gramps's ranch. Fine. I'll sign off on that. But that's it."
I nodded. "Okay, then." I wasn't going to push the issue.
He sighed and went sort of limp, leaning on the counter and staring out the window listlessly. "Why'd you come back, then? Why'd you come back at all?"
God, he sounded so...lost. And lonely. I didn't know what to say to him, what wouldn't hurt him further. "I--it just seemed like the right way to do it, I guess."
"Meaning it was Gramps's idea." He pushed away from the counter, heading toward his study. "Stay as long as you like. You know where things are." And then he was gone, closing the study door behind him.
The kitchen echoed with his absence. The chili smelled good, but I knew it wasn't done yet. Dad always ate at seven, and it wasn't quite six. I heard the faint strains of music emanating from his office, and I recognized "House of the Rising Sun" by the Animals. Sunlight poured in from the west-facing window, golden and brilliant. A bird chirped.