8
Emery
“I cannot believe you’re making me do this,” I said to Kimber as we stood outside of our mother, Autumn’s, house.
It was the house we’d grown up in. Small and squat with red clay bricks and dark roofing. Like everything in Lubbock, it had a monstrous fence for the entire backyard. A tree her mother had planted when she moved in towered over the property. The house was in one of those timeless parts of town. Nothing had changed, not even the people. They’d just settled here like dust.
“You were never going to come over here unless I made you,” Kimber said.
She mashed the old, smashed-in doorbell, and I could hear it hollering through the house, announcing our presence.
“Don’t act like you know me.”
Kimber snorted. “Okay. Done,” she said with a sarcastic bite.
The door popped
