Snapshot

prologue

“I think sometimes people fight because they don’t know how to love.”

“I think that’s just an excuse.”

“Maybe.” Winnie shrugs, not caring that I’m arguing with her, and it’s not because I don’t know how to love. It’s because she’s wrong.

My parents don’t argue because they are in love; they argue because my dad has anger issues and my mom is depressed—or lazy, as Dad often calls her. But Winnie is young, so I don’t hold her innocent outlook on life against her. I wish I could still think the way she does, but instead, I have to accept the world for what it is, not what I want it to be.

I fall back onto the rough shingles on the roof outside Winnie’s room and stare up at the night sky. Winnie moves, laying her head on my stomach and stretching her feet out perpendicular to my body.

“The stars are so bright tonight.”

The sky hasn’t been that clear lately, making seeing the stars difficult, but not tonight. They are a stark contrast to the inky sky, and I bet if we wanted to, we could count them all. We’ve done that a few times. Winnie finds it soothing—I mostly agree.

“They’re a good reminder that the world is big, we are small, and our issues aren’t always as big as they seem.” She drops her head to the side and stares at me with big brown eyes. “Don’t you think?”

Winnie’s dad always says she has an old soul. He usually tells her that when she’s crying about not making friends, but I think he’s right. She always says things that sound weird coming out of a kid’s mouth.

“Even small issues can feel like big issues if you’re close enough.”

“True. But it’s a nice reminder that not everything is as big as it seems, right?”

“I suppose.” It’s my turn to shrug now.

Our peaceful moment is interrupted when a door slams. I know that’s my front door across the street. I just don’t want to acknowledge it. Dad’s angry mutters rip through the quiet air. His rusty old truck is loud as it roars to life, and then he’s gone, most likely heading to the bar.

Knowing my mom is probably over there crying like every other time he leaves the house pissed is like a brick sitting on my chest. Just once, I wish my parents could pretend to get along. It’s exhausting because I know I’ll have to go home and try to comfort her. Probably put her to bed, too, since I bet she’s popped open a bottle by now. None of my other friends have to deal with parents like mine. I don’t know why I had to be born into the family I was.

Why not a family like the Lewises’? Their household is always calm. Our houses might look the same structurally, but they couldn’t be more opposite behind closed doors. People in this house actually love and care about each other the way a family is meant to. They aren’t looking to argue any chance they get. I mean, I’ve seen Winnie and Elijah go head-to-head, but it’s always over normal sibling stuff. He ate her last snack; she stole his CD player—it’s never serious, and an hour after they argue, they are back to normal.

Growing up, I always wanted a sibling like them, but now I’m glad I don’t have one. Someone else having to live through our parents nearly tearing each other’s throats out on the daily doesn’t sound enjoyable. Misery loves company—but not that much. At least not mine.

I wish my parents would grow up and learn how to love each other like Christopher and Sheri do. I’ve never even seen them mad at each other. Mrs. Lewis has scolded Christopher in front of us for various things before, but usually, he is biting back a smile when she does, and it always ends with him giving her affection until whatever anger she was holding dwindles. That’s how I want my marriage to be. No relationship is perfect, but we’re meant to fight battles together, not battle with each other.

“How did your parents meet?”

“Uh, college. I think.”

College. Two more years and I’m there. Maybe then I’ll meet my soulmate.

“What about yours?”

My parents? I nearly snort. They were a random hookup, but I won’t tell a thirteen-year-old that. I’m sure she hears worse at school—I know I did at her age—but still. I’m not risking her asking weird questions I don’t want to answer. Elijah would kill me if she went to him asking what a booty call was.

“I think at my mom’s work.” It’s not a lie. Mom was a stripper, and they did meet at her work. Apparently, he paid for more, and nine months later, out popped a bouncing baby boy. The only reason I know all this is because of their arguments. Dad’s not quiet when he calls Mom a cheap whore, and she’s not quiet when she calls him a drunk, good-for-nothing piece of shit.

Winnie rolls to her stomach and props herself up on her elbows, staring at me expectantly.

“What?”

“Are you coming to the apple orchard with us tomorrow?”

“I can’t. I have to work.” But I wish I could. Going to the apple orchard with the Lewises every year is one of my favorite memories. It’s a tradition, and they have a competition to see who can pick the most. I won last year, but I think that’s because Mr. Lewis let me. Picking is fun, but it’s all the baking and cooking that I really love. Mostly because Mrs. Lewis is an amazing cook and always asks us to taste test everything.

“Can’t you call in?” She frowns, puffing her bottom lip out. She knows I hate it when she does that, and I swear that’s why she does it.

“Some of us have to work, Winnie.” It’s not fair to snap at her, but I do. How would she know about struggling? Her dad is a higher-up at the same factory my dad works at, and a few years ago, Mrs. Lewis opened a bakery downtown that is always busy. They probably aren’t swimming in cash, but they’re comfortable enough, I’m sure.

“I know.” Her voice is soft, and I feel like a dick. “I just like when you come.”

“Maybe I can stop by after.”

Her dark eyes brighten as if that’s the best news she’s ever heard. This is why I love hanging out with Winnie, even if her brother thinks it’s weird. And he doesn’t even know about nights like tonight when we simply lie on the roof outside her room and talk. She’s always excited to see me, unlike anyone else in my life. And she’s a great listener. Maybe a couple years my junior, but she understands most things really well, and even if she doesn’t—like my parents’ genuine hatred for each other, or me having to work—she’s still nice to talk to. The nights I don’t want to talk, she finds a way to distract me, always flipping a bad night to good. I consider her as much of a friend as I consider her brother.

“I’ll be sure to save you a peeler.” She grins and falls onto her back once again, placing her head on my stomach.

I know the world will get to Winnie one day, and her positive outlook will more than likely shift into a realistic one, as it does for most, but I dread the day that happens. Whatever it is that changes her, I’m going to hate it forever.