The Nice Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Then why can’t you let me have this without being jealous?”

  She seemed to wilt, deflate. “Sorry, Ev. I’m happy for you. I am, for real.” She said it flat, monotone.

  I laughed. “Yeah, you really sound like it.” I stepped up behind her and wrapped my arms around her middle, rested my cheek against the back of her head. “Eden. Sis. Listen…I’m not saying you have to be, like, all giddy for me. Just…I don’t know—”

  “You’re my twin, Ev. I want you be happy. I really am happy you had a good time with Billy today. For real. It’s just…all the good stuff happens to you.”

  “Good stuff will happen to you too, Edie. It will, I promise. Just you watch.”

  “‘Kay.” She turned in place and hugged me, then pushed past me. “I have to play through this movement once more before bed. ‘Night.”

  “’Night.” I watched her go, feeling more confused than ever.

  A few minutes later, the sounds of a complex piece of music filled the air, long high notes and low tones and skirling swirling melodies overlapping and weaving a spell around me. Eden’s talent with the cello never ceased to amaze me, even though I heard her play every single day.

  I went to my room and undressed, sat at my vanity in my underwear, brushing my hair and thinking about the day I’d had. As I thought and brushed, my eyes wandered to the stationery set, the colorful, perfumed paper and the refillable faux-quill pen. The set had been a gift from Daddy a few years ago.

  I hadn’t written Caden in a long time, and I hadn’t heard from him in two weeks, since the letter with the picture of a birthday cake included. Well, that wasn’t true; he’d sent me a note with his Gramps’s address in it, but it was literally three sentences and the address, so it barely counted. I’d laughed so hard at that picture of the birthday cake, and it had made my heart flop at his cute thoughtfulness. I wondered what was happening with him, how he was doing. Maybe if I wrote him a letter, it would help me sort out my own feelings?

  I pulled the pad of paper in front of me, slipped the bleed-through backing under a new sheet, and wrote Caden’s name across the top line, adding a curl to the tail of the ’n’, letting my thoughts and feeling coalesce inside of me and flow down toward my pen.

  * * *

  Caden,

  Sorry for taking so long to write you back, I’ve just been so busy, you know? I’ve been shooting several rolls of film every day, developing them myself, and I’ve also been experimenting with large-format painting, like six, seven, and eight feet tall canvases and stuff. It’s really fun working on that scale. Every stroke is huge and broad, but you still have to find the details, the fine strokes, you know?

  So anyway, I hate asking, but…how are you? For real? How’s your gramps’s farm? I can’t believe you drove all the way to Wyoming by yourself. You did, right? You said you were going to. I don’t think I could do that. I’d be too scared. I’d probably get lost and end up in Montana by accident or something.

  Eden for real is driving me insane. I love her so much, she’s my best friend and all that but her sense of competition makes me crazy. I went on a date yesterday, with a guy from my school. Eden got super crazy jealous. I don’t get it. Just because she hasn’t been on a date yet doesn’t mean she needs to go and be all jealous of me. We’re twins, but we’re not the same person. It’s like…it’s like she thinks everything we do has to be equal. If I go on a date and have my first kiss, then she feels like she has to do the same thing. But I’m not her, she’s not me. You know? God, that sounds so selfish, but it’s just true. Growing up, we were always dressed the same, had the same things. We either had to share, or we each had a copy of the same thing. If I got a cd, so did she. If she went to the mall, so did I. Same clothes, same haircuts. All the way up until we were…

  Well, honestly, it was that way up until Mom died. The twin-same thing was Mom’s gig, I guess. I never really thought about this until now, but it’s true. It wasn’t until Mom died that Eden and I started really figuring out who we were apart from the other. I mean, I was always more into arts and crafts and stuff, and Eden was very obviously musically talented from the time she was like four. She picked up Dad’s guitar, the thing was literally bigger than she was, but she sat down with it on her lap and started playing with the strings. It wasn’t like she started playing Brahms or anything, but it was obvious she had musical talent. But that was really the end of our individuality until Mom died. Everything else we did had to be exactly the same.

  And now, I think I’m swinging in the opposite direction, you know? I just want my OWN things, just for me. Things that are only for me, only mine. I want to be unique. I know every person feels that way, wanting to be unique, but when you’re a twin and someone else looks identical to you and shares your every facial expression, your verbal tics and mannerisms, uniqueness becomes even more of a big deal.

  This thing with Will could really be a problem between us, but I just don’t know what to do about it. I don’t think she wants Billy for herself, but he’s kind of like one of those guys at school that every girl has a crush on and he doesn’t seem to realize it. Or if he does, he acts like he doesn’t know and he’s just a great actor. I don’t know. I honestly think he doesn’t realize it, personally. He’s not at all arrogant, especially considering how rich he is and the fact that his dad is some famous movie producer or something. I’m not sure. I don’t follow that shit, but everyone at school makes a big deal about his dad. He was really cool with me. He didn’t act like he was arrogant or cocky or whatever. He was just cool.

  It was my first date. It kind of happened by accident, though.

  Is it weird for me to tell you about this stuff? I won’t if it bugs you.

  I hope you have a good summer at your gramps’s farm.

  * * *

  Write back soon.

  Your friend,

  Ever

  Caden

  * * *

  It was almost two in the morning and I was about to faint from exhaustion. Gramps, Uncle Gerry, and two of the other ranch hands and I had spent the last twenty hours on horseback. A section of fence had been damaged in a storm and several hundred head of Gramps’s best breeding stock had gotten loose, scattering apart over the space of several miles. It had taken us three days to catch them all, herd them back into a fenced-in pasture, and fix the broken fence, and we’d been out checking the rest of the perimeter for breaks since then.

  Finally back at the stables, I slid off of Jersey’s back and led her to her stall. All I wanted to do was collapse into bed, but you didn’t quit until the job was done, and you always, always took care of your horse before yourself. So, despite the fact that I was so tired I could have slept in the pile of hay in the corner of Jersey’s stall, I removed her saddle and blanket, hung them up in the tack room, and set about currying and brushing the tall dun’s coat. She whiskered and murmured as I made her coat shine, and when I finished she nuzzled me with her warm nose, nibbling at my shirt with her flexible lips, hunting for a treat.

  I patted her neck. “I’ll bring you some apples tomorrow, girl, okay?” I scratched her ear, and she whiskered again, bobbing her head as if she’d understood what I said.

  I made sure she had feed and a full water tank before latching her stall and dragging my sore carcass out of the barn and up to the big house, where Gram had coffee and hot, fresh stew waiting. Gramps and the others were still in the stables, so it was just me and Grams in the kitchen.

  I slurped at the coffee in between shoveling bites of stew into my face. Gram slid into the chair beside me, sipping from a tiny porcelain mug filled with tea, the string and tag of the tea bag draped over the edge of the mug and wrapped around the handle. She watched me eat for a moment, her gaze thoughtful.

  “What?” I asked. “Something wrong?”

  She shook her head and smiled, her gray-brown hair tied into a neat bun at the base of her head. “No, sweetie. Just glad you’re here this summer.”

 
There was still something in her eyes though, a spark of something. “What is it, Grams? For real. You’ve got something on your mind, and I know it.”

  She laughed and reached into the pocket of her robe. “This came for you today. It’s from an Ever Eliot.” She smirked at me, her eyes sharp and knowing as she handed me the purple envelope. “It’s scented stationery, Cade. Pretty fancy.” Grams had married a rancher and she’d lived her entire life here, but she’d come from a wealthy West Coast family. She was educated and perceptive, wise, and unfailingly polite.

  I took the letter, blushing. “It’s not like that. She’s just a friend.”

  Grams continued to smirk at me. “Friends don’t send friends letters in scented stationery.”

  “Ever and I have been pen pals since camp last summer. The perfumey letters are just her thing, I think. I don’t know. We’re friends.”

  “Pen pals, huh?” Gram sipped her tea, then reached out a finger and tugged the letter across the table and examined it. “This is expensive stationery, you know. Engraved and personalized, scented. The paper is basically linen, it’s such high quality.”

  I’d never noticed any of that. “Huh. Never really realized that. All I know is she sprays perfume on it before she mails ’em to me.”

  Grams laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh god, you’re such a typical man, Caden Monroe. She doesn’t spray it with perfume, honey, the paper is scented. Made to smell that way by the manufacturer. It’s actually hard to find these days.” She smiled lovingly at me. “I think it’s wonderful that you two are pen pals, real, honest-to-goodness pen pals.”

  “Oh. That makes more sense, I guess. I thought it was weird. It’s still weird, just less weird.” I rose to dish up a second bowl of stew. “She lost her mom about two years ago, and I—” My throat closed and I had to redirect. “We just have some things in common, is all.”

  The sounds of Gramps, Uncle Gerry, Ben, and Miguel laughing as they approached the house floated through the cracked window. Grams gestured at the letter. “You’d best put that in your pocket. If the others see that, they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

  I stuffed the envelope into my back pocket and tugged the tail of my T-shirt down over it, waving at the guys as I trudged upstairs to my room. I closed the door, locked it, and collapsed onto my bed with the letter on my chest. I opened it, read it. I had to read it through twice before the contents really sank in.

  Billy Harper. Date. First kiss.

  I felt dizzy.

  Billy Harper. Date. First kiss.

  I’d told Grams that Ever and I were just friends, just pen pals. I knew that’s all it was. We spent some time together at an arts camp a year ago. We’d traded a few letters. So why did I feel betrayed, somehow? Why did I feel like I’d lost something, knowing Ever had gone on a date, had kissed a guy?

  I shouldn’t feel that way. I had no right to feel that way, and I knew it. But knowing I shouldn’t feel it didn’t change the fact that I did. I read the letter through again, and again. I wanted to write back, to tell her how I felt, even if I wasn’t even sure exactly how I was feeling. Off-kilter, like suddenly I was off-balance.

  I had a sketchbook on my nightstand. I reached out and snagged it, opened it to a blank page and started writing. I didn’t think through it, I just wrote.

  * * *

  Ever,

  It sounds like your sis has some recurring self-esteem issues. Do you think it’s connected to losing your mom? I wish I could help you with that. I just don’t know. We all have to find contentment in who we are as individuals. I don’t know much, but I know that. She can’t be you, and you can’t be her. She has to live her life and be who she’s supposed to be.

  I don’t have any siblings, but I’d imagine jealousy like you described in your letter seems like it might be pretty common? If she’s got self-esteem issues, then that may be showing up in this thing with that guy in the form of jealousy. Maybe she doesn’t feel like she’ll ever have what you have, because she’s not comfortable with how she looks, or whatever? I’m just a guy, okay? I’m not a psychologist, obviously, and you two are girls, and no guy ever really understands any girl. But that’s my two cents on the subject.

  I got to Wyoming just fine. I had to get away from Dad. He’s…not doing well. It’s hard for me to watch that, and I needed to get away from it. Honestly, the longer I’m here, the more I don’t want to leave. And you know, there’s not much keeping me in Detroit, except school, and I can transfer. There’s a high school in Casper. Maybe I’ll just stay here. I love it here. It’s peaceful. Gramps respects me as a worker, and is giving me more and more responsibility, and Uncle Gerry is pretty cool too. Grams is…Grams. Steady, solid, and always baking cookies or pies. Always has coffee and hot food ready when we come back from the range. She knows things, too. She knows when I’m upset in a way even Gramps doesn’t.

  As far as your discussion of identity goes, I think you have a pretty unique view of the topic. I’ve never had the problem you do, obviously, since I’m an only child. But…do I know who I am? I don’t know to answer that. Am I defined by who my parents are? Or were, since Mom is dead, and Dad is…absent. I mean, they raised me, they infused me with their beliefs and morals, gave me their DNA and the genetics that make up my talents and what I look like. But I’m also a product of society, right? I mean, our society is different now than when our parents were kids, and the structure and fabric of our society is a huge factor in creating who we are, right? But none of that says who I am. I’m Caden Connor Monroe, son of Aidan and Janice. I’m an artist. I guess I’m also kind of a cowboy too. But who else am I? What else am I? I don’t know, and I don’t even know how to start answering that question.

  I’m not a kid here. In Wyoming, I mean. I don’t think I’m a kid at all. Mom dying grew me up. Driving to Wyoming did too, in a way. I mean, it was just a road trip, but somehow, the process of making that decision and carrying it out on my own eradicated the last bit of my childhood. I’m expected to get up at dawn with Gramps and Uncle Gerry and Ben, Miguel, Riley, and all the other ranch hands. I’m expected to pull my weight, and as Gramps’s grandson, as I get older and learn more, I’m also given more responsibility. I work from sunup to sundown, seven days a weeks. Before sunup and after sundown some days. I actually just got back from a twenty-hour non-stop ride around the entire perimeter of Gramps’s fence line, fixing breaks and collecting some horses that had gotten out. I mean that literally when I say twenty hours nonstop. We started at four am, and it’s past two am now, and we just got in. I’m still in my boots as I write this, but I’m literally so tired the words are swimming on the page. I’m surprised it’s legible at all, honestly. I don’t mind the work, to be honest. It keeps me busy, keeps my mind occupied so I can’t get stuck thinking about Mom and Dad.

  Anyway, I’m gonna pass out now. Talk to you soon.

  * * *

  Caden

  * * *

  I didn’t mention Billy Harper, or the date, or the kiss. I never would. Not my business. My business was breaking horses, foaling, herding. My business would be school. Art. Surviving. My business was not Ever Eliot and who she went out with or who she kissed. She was just my pen pal.

  I put the letter in an envelope and sealed it, then passed out.

  The next few weeks went quickly. I got a letter back from Ever, but it was short and kind of empty. She talked about her latest painting project, an attempt to recreate a Monet piece stroke for stroke, color for color. I wrote back describing what an average day as a ranch hand on a working horse ranch was like. She didn’t mention Billy Harper again, and I didn’t ask.

  Weeks turned into months, and then the start of the school year was approaching, and I had to decide whether to go back to Michigan.

  “You’re goin’ back, Cade,” Gramps said, when I asked him what he thought. “You ain’t quittin’ school, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

  “No, Gramps. I mean I’d finish the l
ast two years in Casper. Then I’d be here in the early mornings and evenings to help out, not just the summer months.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess you’d best discuss that with your Pops. You know you’re welcome here, and I’d honestly be glad for the year-round help, as long as you finish school.”

  “Dad won’t care.”

  Gramps frowned. “He’s still your father, Caden Connor Monroe, and you ain’t an adult yet. You still owe him the respect of askin’ him, tell him what you’re thinking.”

  I sighed. “I know. I just…I don’t want to go back. I’m…I’m worried he’s worse. He hasn’t even called once. Hasn’t texted. Nothing. Years past, he’d call a couple times a week to check in.”

  Gramps shook his head. “I know, son, I know. But you gotta make the effort. I’ll fly you there, and if you decide to come back, I’ll help you move. I can spare about two weeks, most. We’ll rent a truck and drive you out here, if it comes to that.”

  “Gramps, I don’t have nothin’ to move. Nothin’ at that house means anything to me. It’s just a bed and an empty dresser. I brought everything that was really mine that I cared about with me.”

  Gramps bought me a one-way ticket to Michigan. I called Dad from the tarmac as the plane was taxiing, and he agreed to pick me up. He sounded like he had before: apathetic, absent. When he showed up an hour and a half later, he looked thinner than I’d ever seen him. His eyes were haggard, tired looking. His skin was wrinkled, sagging. He hadn’t shaved, and even his scalp, which he was normally fastidious about keeping egg-smooth, was stubbled with receding gray stubble.

  I tried not to stare at him as he drove us home—back to his house. I wasn’t sure where home was anymore. Home used to be this house, the one in Farmington where I’d grown up. But now…the ranch seemed more like home.