The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,225

nothing worked. It didn’t matter what he said or how much he vowed to be the man she deserved, nothing could undo what had already been done.

I was sixteen when she died.

And I hated you.

I hated what you represented.

I wanted nothing to do with you or your mother or anything relating to my father’s past affairs. Out of loyalty to my mother, I vowed I would never so much as acknowledge you, and I swore to myself I would never, ever love you.

You weren’t my sister.

You were the incarnation of the very thing that destroyed my mother’s will to live, and for that, I vowed I would never forgive you.

Maybe it seems petty. Maybe it seems irrational. But I was sixteen, and I was staring ahead at a future that my mother would never be a part of, and it hurt in ways that I could never put into words.

But my father—our father—died a few years ago (massive heart attack—died alone in his sleep if you’re wondering), and I came home one day after his funeral to a package filled with letters, all of them scribbled in pink gel pen in the kind of handwriting that belonged to a young girl. I read them all, along with the note your mother had attached.

I still hated you. But then I felt sorry for you. You had idealized me into this version of what you wanted me to be. And let me tell you, I wasn’t that guy.

Far from it.

This is going to be hard for you to understand, but I spent years and years hating you and what you represent, and while it isn’t fair or even rational, a part of me still does. I feel robbed. And I’m sure you do too. I’m trying, but I can’t get past it. Not yet anyway. Everything is still too fresh.

I’m twenty-four as I write this. And who knows? Maybe you’ll never see this. Maybe I’ll come to my senses in twenty years when I’m in the thick of my middle-aged existence, realizing I’m staring down the barrel of the second half of my life and I’ve still never met my little sister.

But if I don’t? If we never meet? Know that it’s probably for the best.

If I’m forty-four and still not over this shit, you’re better off without me.

I’m not a nice person, Ayla. I’m angry and contentious. I have many acquaintances but only one close friend, because he’s the only person who puts up with my shit because he’s just as fucked up as I am.

I’ve done bad things. I’m selfish. I’ve spent my entire life numbing myself up so now I hurt people just so I can feel something.

I’m not proud of the person I’ve become.

But believe me. It’s better that we don’t meet because I’d probably fuck that up too. I’d hurt you. I’d say mean things. I’d let you down.

By the way, I looked you up a few times over the years, mostly through social media. You seemed really intelligent and witty, and you had nice friends in high school, and you went to a really good college. That boyfriend you had—Ethan—the one with the glasses and skinny jeans? He didn’t deserve you, and you deserved better than a hipster wannabe. I was happy when you dumped him. You write. I know because I found your blog. And you’re damn good at it. And you should know that although we don’t look much alike, we make a lot of the same facial expressions. And we both have the same ears.

So if you’re reading this now, it’s because we never met, and I need you to trust me when I say it was for the best. And while I’m still struggling to get over everything, I just want you to know that I’m trying to love you anyway.

I just might need a little more time.

* * *

Your brother,

Bryce

* * *

PS – I’m sure you’re wondering about your dad since you never had the great fortune of meeting the douche. I’ve included some photos, so you could see what he looked like, and I’ve written some things on the backs of them. I’m not going to glorify or idealize him. I won’t sugarcoat. He was a narcissistic asshole. He drank heavily and smoked like a chimney. He blew his retirement savings at the casino and my college funds on a brand new Corvette that he totaled within the first month of owning it. He didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral,