He paused. “Just Remy.”
Right. Remy. His foster brother.
I was still trying and failing spectacularly to reconcile those two as brothers. Marco, the world’s grumpiest control freak whoprobably made lists just to have something to check off, and Remy, who’d somehow managed to be one of the few adults I’d ever trusted with anything that mattered.
It didn’t add up. It was like finding out Batman and Mr. Rogers were raised in the same house. I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of cosmic mix-up had landed those two in the same foster home.
Maybe it wasn’t fair, but I was instantly dying to know what they were like as kids. Had Remy been calm and responsible? Had Marco always been this tense, this quietly furious, this allergic to casual conversation and smiles? Or had he once been softer, lighter, before something shaped him into the frustratingly well-ordered man I knew now?
More importantly—had they fought over dumb stuff like who got shotgun or who stole whose shoes? Had Marco written passive-aggressive notes on the fridge about stolen yogurt, or was that just a habit he reserved exclusively for me?
“Did you live there long?”
“Moved in when I was six,” he said simply. “Stayed until I left.”
So he’d left when he joined the military.
“What was she like?” I asked, then I clarified, “Your foster mom.”
He was still again. “Neglectful,” he said finally. “Couldn’t remember my name half the time.”
“Oh.” I blinked, the word catching in my throat like I didn’t expect it to sting. “Careless, or ... substance abuse?”
He turned his head just enough to look down at me, and for a second I almost wished I hadn’t asked. “Alcoholic,” he said gently as his fingers stilled against my waist.
And just like that, I felt it. The recognition. That awful, sinking twist in your stomach when someone names something out loud that you thought only lived inside you.
Alcohol.
It sounded like such a simple explanation. A single word to cover a lifetime of excuses, of apologies not given, of birthday cakes forgotten and school plays missed and the endless, exhausting ache of never being enough to change someone.
I swallowed hard, pressing my forehead tighter against him, but not because I needed comfort. I needed space. Just not the physical kind. Because that had been me, hadn’t it? For years. Drowning. Disappearing into a glass instead of being someone my family could rely on. I wondered if someone would ever describe me that way—casually, with that same disappointed tone Marco had just used.
Maybe someone already had.
“Do you remember anything about her?” I asked, my voice quieter than before.
He didn’t answer right away. A part of me wanted to take it back, to say, “Never mind. Let it go.” But I didn’t. Because the part of me that wanted toknow—to reallyknowhim—was louder.
Even if the answers weren’t pretty.
I gave him time. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loudly, like he might spook if I pushed.
Then, finally, he said, “She smelled like vodka all the time. She’d call meMi Vidawhile she complained about her love life. Pretty sure that was what made her drink. She had horrible taste in men.”
I imagined six-year-old Marco lying awake at night listening for footsteps. Wondering who might walk in next.
“Was she mean?” I asked, softer this time.
“No,” he said as if it surprised him a little. “Just ... gone. Even when she was in the room.”
I’d done that. Checked out. Zoned out. Let people talk while I floated ten feet above the conversation, pretending I was listening. Pretending I was fine.
It was hard to picture Marco as a kid. He was so composed now. But maybe that was the point. Maybe he’d learned young that control was the only thing he could count on.
“I think I’m like her,” I said quietly.
His gaze found mine again.
