Chapter One: Kay
Fuck.
Again. He chose her over me. Again. *Her* over *me*.
Fuck.
I thought I had thew upper hand, I thought I was finally going to get something.
Yeah, like that could fucking happen.
What did I expect though? It's always been like this. Even to my family it was always 'Oh that's just Kay'. *Just* Kay. Well fuck them too. I got used to it by the time I was nine, either the baby needed attention or Noah was doing so well in a sport or a class or whatever thing he was into at the time. I was just there, just around.
Not for him, though.
Miguel.
But through all those years he always made me feel special. Like I meant something, that the world would notice if I did run away to the circus, my ill faded idea in third grade. He always made sure I was acknowledged, I was thought of . . . I was loved.
It's over now so fuck him too.
Ha, wait, scratch that, I tried that just after *she* came to town and was caught by his brother and my uncle. My desperate attempt to turn his eyes away for one second from *her*. My lovely cousin. Charity.
Yuck.
I loved him forever, you know. It wasn't like as soon as *she* showed up I realized it like some flaky drama. Nope, it was right in front of me and I knew it. I noticed, I tried, you are suppose to win when you try, right?
Nope.
Fuck, now I'm crying, this is so stupid.
I hate him now, maybe not because he doesn't love me but because he rejected me so blatantly, ignored me at every turn. I really do hate him now.
No, I don't.
I'm trying to because maybe if I hate him everything that hurts inside will go away. I'll realize he didn't deserve me anyway and years later when were by chance at the same little cocktail party and he's settled down with four kids, a flippy wife and a picket fence in suburbia hell I'll look at him and smile. My eyes showing a hint of pity as some gorgeous Freddie Prinze Jr. look-a-like leads me away so that we won't be late for our flight to Italy.
Maybe.
I hope.
Because, after all what is my alternative?
Reese?
Blah.
Ew.
Reese and I. Four kids. Suburban hell.
I'd sooner run away to the circus.
You did it, Miguel. You succeeded because even though I really don't hate you I don't like you either.
Today, when we looked through the old photo albums, saw all the old baseball pictures. I really thought . . . I mean we had history. The only fucking history you had with *her* she lost when her memory suddenly left her. Oh, she was in a fire. Big fucking deal. I just wish whatever hit her would have done it a little harder.
God, that's so fucking wrong. But look what else I did. I spill fish guts on her thinking it would make her go nuts and Miguel want me. How desperate can you get? It didn't even make fucking sense!
Great now I feel fucking pathetic.
It was wrong to do that stuff, sure. Wrong to think like that but . . . Why was it when she took over my life it suddenly got better than when I had it?
She took my mother.
My sister.
Miguel.
Not Daddy though, he doesn't really treat her special. He's really indifferent.
But he doesn't acknowledge me either most times but at least I know he loves me. Even if he never tells me it.
Oh, well. Like I said, I was used to it.
But Noah, he's different. I always was sort of his little 'brother'. The one always up for a baseball, always ready to hear his latest CD or play the latest racing game. Really just because then someone noticed me, they wanted to spend time with me. I cried when he went away to school. Noah loves me.
But he hasn't met *her* yet, either.
We'll see.
But should I really care about the rest?
Mom. We never did 'bond'. She kind of reminds me of a clueless housewife in the 'Leave it to Beaver'-'Make Room for Daddy' type realm. I never saw those shows but whatever. Only my mother never did have any great knowledge to offer. Or even really want to talk to me in the first place.
Whatever. I will not get sappy over *that*.
And Jessica, my dear sister. We've fought since she turned seven and knew mom would choose her side in ever fight. No big loss there. Sometimes, though, I wish it was different. The times when I see her with Charity. But that feeling gets replaced with resentment. I can replace my feelings for him too. I have to.
Miguel. Fuck, I'm starting to cry already. I'll miss him. Not like the two banshees ahead of him. I love him. Ever since he saw me sitting alone in a park when I was little. Ever since he decided he would say hello. His adorable little eyebrows furrowing when he first spotted me. Walking over sticking his hand out and introducing himself.
Fuck. I hate her.
That's where I'm sitting now. In that same spot on the jungle gym. It's gotten a lot smaller. I'm here and thinking of this afternoon.
Of us.
With the photo album.
He smiled when he talked about our old games. He has such a beautiful smile.
I thought he was there to tell me something. He couldn't choose her again. I had the upper hand. We had *history*, dammit!
Well I soon found out history means dick.
Because this was the first time in almost a year we were alone together, talking. This was the first fucking time.
And I looked at him.
And I smiled.
And then I kissed him.
I really thought this was it.
Because he kissed back, for a little moment in time he really kissed back. He knew it was me and he kissed back.
And then he pulled away.
He sputtered something about Charity and how he loved her and then he left. He finally knew how I felt and he still left.
Well, fuck him them.
God, it hurts.
I tossed the album on the floor and the pictures scattered all over the floor. The tears blurred my vision but through them I saw one picture that landed all the way near the door. Miguel and I, about two weeks after we had first met.
His arm was around my shoulders and mine around his and we were happy. We were so happy. I don't even remember who took it. I really don't care. I just grabbed it and ran. To here. To old memories.
To Miguel.
At least the Miguel I knew. The one I got a glimpse of today.
I take the picture and crumple it up; opening my hand and letting it fall to the ground, right next to my dusty footprint.
Because it's the past.
It's history.
And history doesn't mean dick.
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