Word Count: 1037

“I was jealous of you.”

The conversation with her mother went about as well as Paris had expected it would. It'd been awkward and tense, with no anger but plenty of apologies on both of their parts. Paris was sure she would remember the look that crossed her mother's face for a long time—a weary, expectant sort of acceptance, like she thought this decision was a long time coming. But there'd been a lot of guilt in her mother's eyes, too—and a subtle, nostalgic longing for a simpler time.

They'd hugged, Paris had let her mother kiss her forehead, let her mother nag at her about her weight and staying healthy, until they could no longer avoid the topic neither one of them seemed willing to discuss.

Paris's father's presence hung heavy in the air between them, but Paris couldn't bring herself to talk about it, and her mother seemed content to keep the rest of her thoughts to herself.

“You should talk to Rhiannon,” she'd said instead.

So that was what Paris did.

She crept quietly down the stairs to the basement apartment in her mother's house, but Rhiannon heard her anyway. Rhiannon was on the couch with a book in her hands; she looked up when she heard Paris, and arched a brow at her slow descent. The TV was on, but Rhiannon didn't seem to have been paying much attention it it—probably just using it as background noise, Paris surmised.

“I was jealous of you,” Paris said again, raising her voice a bit to make sure her cousin heard her when Rhiannon didn't seem too interested in what she had to say.

“Okay,” Rhiannon said, and shrugged. Then she turned back to her book and said blandly, “Plenty to be jealous of.”

Her tone of voice was monotone and Paris couldn't tell if she was trying to be funny or trying to be sarcastic, or both or neither. Paris stayed where she was on the stairs for the time being and tried not to be annoyed, but she didn't like feeling as if she was going to be ignored when she was trying to set the record straight.

“You're not going to talk to me?” she said.

“Doesn't feel too great, does it?” Rhiannon countered.

“Come on, Rhiannon, I'm trying to apologize.”

That was when Rhiannon closed her book and sat up, turning on the couch so she could stare over the back of it and meet Paris with another bland, emotionless expression.

“So apologize,” she said.

Paris stared blankly back in an attempt to mask her mounting frustrations, but she frowned deeply and could not quite conceal her discomfort with the conversation.

She and Rhiannon looked a lot alike, no doubt on account of the fact that their mothers looked a lot alike. Both Paris and Rhiannon had their fathers' eyes, and it was this more than any other minor difference in their appearances that made it rather easy to tell one from the other. As children, any other differences had been quite a bit more difficult to determine. Now that they'd grown, of course, those differences were all the more apparent, with a few new ones to further separate them.

Rhiannon was taller (Paris had noticed that right away, and could not help but envy her cousin's height; three extra inches was a big deal to someone who'd stood at 5'3” for the last three years). Paris's cheekbones were a bit more prominent, and the shapes of their mouths were noticeably dissimilar. Their expressions, too, were hardly the same, owing to the fact that Rhiannon had become less expressive since childhood. Everything Paris felt could typically be seen quite clearly on her face or in her eyes; Rhiannon, on the other hand, seemed more adept at hiding what she felt when she wanted to. (Needed to?)

But they were both slim, with the same fair blonde hair and the same pale complexion.

Yet somehow, despite the familiarity, despite the memories, Rhiannon felt like a stranger to Paris.

“I'm sorry I pushed you away when Mom left,” Paris said. She had to force herself to continue in the face of Rhiannon's apparent indifference. “I was upset and I didn't know what to do, and Dad was always angry and I didn't know how to change things to make it better, and I just wanted things to be like they used to be and it hurt to know that nothing would ever be the same and that everything I did was useless, and I was angry with my mom and with myself, and I knew your mom wasn't going to let us see each other anymore because I was—”

“Stop,” Rhiannon said. Her voice was quiet but firm.

Paris stopped talking and waited, shifting in place restlessly.

Rhiannon looked at her for a little while. Then she sighed deeply and closed her eyes as if to center herself and keep herself in control. When she opened her eyes to look at Paris again, Rhiannon looked determined.

“When your mom left... she wasn't around to protect you anymore,” Rhiannon said, her tone calm and slow. Then she frowned sadly and asked, “You didn't think I would've?”

Paris lowered her eyes guiltily. “I'm sorry,” she said.

Rhiannon didn't say another thing. She seemed content to let that thought sink in for a while. Indeed, it was a lot to think about, packed full of “what if”s that caused Paris's guilt to grow.

The next thing Paris heard from her cousin was a heavy sigh and the sound of rustling as Rhiannon adjusted her position on the couch, the scraping of pages as Rhiannon found her place in her book again.

“You can sit if you want to.”

Paris looked up at the sound of Rhiannon's voice. Her cousin wasn't looking back, but she also didn't seem put off by Paris's company.

Paris finished making her way down the stairs and tentatively took up a spot on the couch.

For a while they sat in silence that could almost pass as companionable—with Paris finding something to watch on the TV while Rhiannon continued to read.