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Everyone has always said I look like Bailey, but I don't. I have grey eyes to her green, an oval face to her heart-shaped one, I'm shorter, scrawnier, paler, flatter, plainer, tamer. All we shared is a madhouse of curls that I imprison in a ponytail while she let hers rave like madness around her head. I don't sing in my sleep or eat the petals off flowers or run into the rain instead of out of it. I'm the unplugged-in one, the side-kick sister, tucked into a corner of her shadow. Boys followed her everywhere; they filled the booths at the restaurant where she waitressed, herded around her at the river. One day, I saw a boy come up behind her and pull a strand of her long hair I understood this- I felt the same way. In photographs of us together, she is always looking at the camera, and I am always looking at her. ↗
I told myself that some families we get without asking, while others we choose. And I chose those two. I think that’s what you’d call a silver lining. ↗
The waitress tapped her pen on the tab. "So do you guys know what you want?" And then he did it, just as he always had whenever he'd been asked that question―he looked straight at Keri with blatant hunger in his eyes and said, "Yes, ma'am, I do. ↗
Who’s Beth?” Keri asked. “The bartender at your wedding.” “Oh, that’s right. How could I forget when my husband almost got thrown out of our own reception for trying to hire her like a hooker or something.” “What’s a hooker?” Bobby asked. Keri’s island tan flushed pink. “Oops.” “You put it on the end of a fishing pole, dummy,” Brian explained. Bobby frowned. “Uncle Joe tried to hire a worm? ↗
