Cold Kiss

them.
    “You know who you are, I hope.” She tilts her head, thoughtful, as if she’s testing the shape and weight of the words to come. “You’re a bright, imaginative girl with a lot of special talents.”
    She’s so not getting off that easy. I arch a brow at her. “Come on, Mom. Special talents are playing the violin really well and scoring goals every game. What we are is different.”
    “You’re right. And different doesn’t mean bad, all evidence around this house the last few years to the contrary.”
    I peel chipped dark purple polish off my thumbnail. “You know I remember, right? When Robin was born, before Dad left, when Mari and Gram were here all the time? It was a part of us then. It wasn’t weird or wrong. I thought it was strange that other moms couldn’t make flowers grow or put fairy lights up on the ceiling.”
    She’s silent for a long time, remembering, I think, and the sadness on her face hurts. But I’m not going to let that stop me. If she wants honesty, then she can go first.
    “Is it why Dad left? Or is that why you stopped, I don’t know, being so open about what we are?”
    She sighs and narrows her eyes at me. “This is not the conversation we need to have right now. You screwed up, and I’m not taking the responsibility for it, and I’m not letting you change the subject.”
    I scrub my hands over my face, trying to push down the need to shout, to throw something. “But that’s what you always say! So when can we talk about it? This is my life, Mom.”
    She bites her bottom lip before she speaks again, and I can see the angry white teeth marks in it pinking up. “Your dad had really good reasons for leaving.”
    I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that. Good reasons? What does that even mean?
    “Good? Good enough to leave and never call again? To act like Robin and I don’t even exist?”
    Mom tilts her head back, as if the answer is written on the ceiling. “It’s complicated, Wren.”
    I bet it is, but I still want to know . It’s a huge piece of my life that’s been covered up with a sheet, sitting in the middle of the room all these years while we were expected to ignore it.
    “Was it you?” What I really want to say is, Tell me it wasn’t me . But I can’t make my mouth form those words.
    Mom doesn’t try to mask the hurt in her voice. “No, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t you girls, either. And if you think I haven’t missed him every day since he left, if you think I don’t still love him, you’re wrong.”
    For a second, all I can see is Danny’s face, dozens of them, superimposed on each other: Danny laughing, Danny with his bottom lip between his teeth as he draws, Danny leaning forward to kiss me, Danny pale and cold and still. I get it, or I think I do, but it doesn’t help.
    I can see my dad’s face, too, as he leaned close to read to me before bed. When I close my eyes, I can feel the bony set of his shoulders when he lifted me up for a ride, and breathe in the dark, smoky scent of his shirts.
    Whoever decided that love should hurt sucks.
    It’s been silent for too long, and I watch as Mom wipes a tear off her cheek. Whoever decided that life should hurt sucks even more.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. I hate that she’s been carrying this around for so long, but so have I. “I don’t get it. How can there be a good reason never to talk to your kids again? How can you still love him after that?”
    It’s a stupid question. I still love him, or what I remember of him. It’s the foundation of what I feel for him, even if I’ve painted over it with rage and betrayal and confusion.
    “You’re going to have to ask him to explain it, I think,” Mom says carefully, and turns her head to face me again. Nothing is hidden—for the first time in a long time, everything she’s feeling is right there in her eyes. “And I can help you, when you’re ready.”
    For a moment, my ears ring with pounding blood just like they did when Ryan told me Danny was dead. It’s too unbelievable, too strange, words that make sense on their own but not strung into that sentence.
    “Help me?” My voice breaks a little, and I sit up straight, blinking at her. “You know where he is?”
    She doesn’t even try to soften the blow. “I do. Well, I know how to get in touch with him, to be more precise.”
    “All this time?” I struggle to my feet, walking off the tingling thrills of energy coursing through me. “All these years,