“No.” My mom hands me another photo across the table. “This was in fifth grade.”

Parker sticks her tongue out playfully. “Nice try.”

Mom continues, “Field day at school, maybe? I’m not sure why I would’ve been there otherwise. Oh, and this one, you two down at the dock. The sun was setting, and you just refused to stop jumping in. We never could wrangle you both inside.”

It’s then I realize there are so many pictures of us outside—the dock, the stone beach at the bottom of Captain’s Cottage. There are photos of failed lemonade stands, where Honey and Mom were our only customers, cartwheel contests down the small hill. But it’s the ones with the ladder leading to the clubhouse that I linger on, even if they’re a little blurry and out of focus. They’re clear to me, as is the sign Parker hung there.

Rebels Only.

“I like this one.” Mom holds up another for us to see. This photo is just of Parker. “I’m not sure how it ended up with me. Honey must’ve accidently given it to me.”

I take the photo, shaking my head, before passing it to Parker.

“That’s the flower farm by the barn I used to ride at.” She looks at herself a decade ago, facing away from the camera, in a field of sunflowers. “We always bought a bunch after every lesson.”

Parker runs her finger around the edge of the picture and I press my knee to hers beneath the table.

Mom slides another over. “And this?”

“Was that the eight grade dance?” I ask.

Mom nods. “I chaperoned. You two just stood dancing side by side but never together.” This gets a kick out of her, and she cackles. “If we only knew then.”

If I only told her then, I wonder before backtracking. But man, was I awkward with braces. Thank god I didn’t.

“This one must’ve been before junior prom.” Mom hands a picture to Parker. “I’m sure you hear all the time how much you look like your grandmother.”

I find Honey standing behind Parker, holding her shoulders. In typical Honey fashion, she’s dressed to the nines like she’s the one off to a ball. And at the edge of the photo, I see the lip of a martini glass. It makes me smile. But then I remember, this was just after she first got sick. Honey died just two months later.

“There’s a lot of her in you,” I say to Parker.

I never had a reason to pay attention to the similarities before. Madeline got Candice’s blonde hair and light features, but Parker’s chestnut locks and dark eyes came from her father’s side. She and Honey share the same shaped nose, and as I stare at Honey’s mouth open in the photo, I realize now they shared the same laugh too.