The Missing Half

by Ashley Flowers

But more than that, I learned years ago that numbness is better than pain. I’ve been not talking for so long, I’m not sure I’d even know how to start.

My fingers tighten around my bike handles. Most people’s reaction when they’re confronted is fight or flight. I freeze. And I hate myself for it.

This is why I didn’t want to talk about the past. My emotions get too heavy to hold.

Kasey and I were the kind of sisters without walls. We shared eyeshadow and bras and lip gloss. Hair from both our heads intertwined in the same brush. When one of us got too much sunscreen on our hand, we’d slap it on the other’s thigh. Both of us knew every boy the other had ever had a crush on.

There was a look of fear in Kasey’s eyes when she told me to be careful that night.

For some reason, late that summer, my sister was scared.

Patience, as people have told me throughout my entire life, is not my strong suit.

“Famous Jake’s is called Mesquite Barbecue now. Mesquite and Rosie’s Records—Jenna, they share a wall.”

“Does the name Steve McLean mean anything to you?”

For a moment, he’s so still, I’m not sure he’s heard me.

It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve seen his cheerful façade drop.

Two branches of the same tree, two pieces of a soul. Where one sister goes, the other will be, for she is but half of the whole.