My Coke was delivered and I took a sip.
“You can order a beer here, you know. Brady doesn’t care,” Sonya, another waitress, said, tipping her own beer to her lips.
I shrugged and made a face. “I don’t like beer.” The truth was, I was the daughter of an illegal immigrant. I would never purposefully break the law and risk bringing legal attention to myself and perhaps my mother. Again, this was something I could never attempt to explain to other people who didn’t live the life I led. Nor would I ever try. I carried it alone. When at school, it had been an unconscious decision, as I had never fit in. I was friends with the misfits. At work, we were all much the same, and it felt good to have friends but it didn’t mean I would consider opening up to anyone. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t think I’d know how. I’d been so isolated— reclusive— for so long, it was just a part of me now, like my black hair or green eyes.
Those damn parameters in which I would always be contained.
We all chatted and joked for a few minutes before the name Sawyer caught my attention being spoken from somewhere over my shoulder. I startled very slightly, my ears tuning into the conversation between two young Mexican men sitting at the bar, speaking in Spanish. From what I could pick up over the buzz of noise around me, one of them worked at Sawyer Farm and was worried they were going to get laid off after Warren Sawyer had passed away several days before. My breath caught. Warren Sawyer—Preston and Cole’s father—had passed away? I hadn’t heard. Not that I would have, except Linmoor was a small town. Sadness lodged in my throat. Poor Preston and Cole. I didn’t know a whole lot about their family dynamic, but I knew they both respected their father immensely, and he’d always been a fair employer to my mama.
I stayed for another half hour or so and then told the group I was leaving and said my goodbyes. Outside, I grabbed a newspaper from the box near the curb and threw it on my seat before driving home. Once I’d pulled into my space at the apartment complex where we lived, I opened the paper to the obituaries and scanned the headings. My heart sunk.
Warren Sawyer, 66, passed away Wednesday, June 2. Born and raised in Linmoor, California, Warren is survived by wife, Camille, and sons, Preston and Cole. Funeral services will be held Monday, June 7 beginning at 11 a.m. at Ritchie & Peach Funeral Home. Friends and family are invited for refreshments at the Sawyer family farm after the service.
I’d been holding my breath as I read, and I let it out in a rushed exhale. I wondered how he’d died. What would this mean for the farm and the Sawyer boys? Should I go to the funeral? I sat biting my lip, wondering. Wouldn’t it be proper to pay respects, both as a friend of Preston and Cole and as someone whose family member had once worked there? I wondered if my mama would want to go and immediately rejected the question. I knew better. She wouldn’t.
Gathering my things, I got out of the car and walked up the stairs to our apartment, letting myself quietly inside. My mama was sleeping soundly on the used mattress I’d bought her when we’d moved in here, after I’d inspected it thoroughly for bedbugs. I still shivered in disgust and humiliation at that awful, long-ago memory—but not nearly long ago enough . The bone-deep chill I’d felt, humiliating Preston and Cole . . .
My socks were quiet on the padded carpet as I tiptoed to the bathroom and locked the door behind me, smiling slightly at the click that continued to be a small pleasure. As I washed the day from my skin, I decided that, yes, I would go to Warren Sawyer’s funeral. It was the right thing to do. I told myself it had absolutely nothing to do with seeing Preston, but I knew that was a lie.
**********
The church was packed to the rafters, but I managed to find a seat in the back, pressed between two families. I had to sit mostly leaned on one hip in order to fit, and the people on either side seemed annoyed that I’d squeezed myself in. But it was either that or stand in the back and I was too nervous to situate myself somewhere where I’d likely be one of the first faces the family saw as they entered the church.
The voices hushed as Camille Sawyer appeared in the doorway, her eyes red and her lips quivering. She must be in her fifties but she was still a stunning woman who, from a distance, looked more like thirty-five. Her pale blonde hair was in a classic twist and her figure was trim and svelte in a sleeveless, black dress. She stood in the light of the doorway for a moment as if she was posing for the cameras. The effect was striking with the sunshine streaming in behind her and highlighting her golden beauty, and if I’d had a cell phone, I would have been tempted to raise it and snap a shot. But then two tall figures joined her, taking her arms as they moved out of the backlight and into the dim church.
My breath caught and my stomach clenched. The last time I’d seen Cole had been a year ago but even since then, he’d changed. He was even broader, or maybe he just seemed that way wearing the stiff, dark suit, but the lines of his face were definitely stronger and less boyish than they’d been. My gaze traveled slowly to Preston and though he was identical to Cole, the change in him was more startling because I hadn’t seen him for so much longer. And my God, they were handsome. Something about their double beauty made them even more gasp-worthy. Throughout the church, I swore I heard a collective feminine sigh.
My heartbeat sped up and all the feelings I’d thought were in the past came slamming back in the time between one breath and the next. Oh dear Lord. How had I forgotten what it felt like to be in the same room as Preston? Had spending time with Cole on those two occasions over the years, emailing him from my school account now and again, led me to fool myself into believing that my feelings for Preston were the same easy, lukewarm emotions I had for Cole? Without having them together, without the contrast right in front of me, I’d somehow begun to believe my feelings for them were similar. More to the point, I’d wanted to convince myself of that falsehood because it was less painful than the truth that the twin I loved didn’t love me and had found it easy to leave without once looking back.