Vinny’s gaze darted everywhere before locking on Lincoln. Lincoln’s dimples cut deep into his cheeks from how tightly he pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on Vinny while his thumb caressed circles into my hand.
“Dude, you’re not even going to offer to leave?” Vin asked.
Lincoln’s hands stilled around mine, his voice dipped lower, the way it used to every time he spoke to me. The way it wouldn’t anymore, not to me, not since the accident.
“Nope.” He exaggerated on the “p,” his trademark smirk and dimple daring Vinny to push him further. “You don’t get to barge in here and feed her some version where you’re not another person who didn’t have her back. You don’t get to demand she talks to you.”
“Vin, come on. Let’s just… I honestly don’t even know why you’re here.” My voice frayed, all my energy eaten up by breathing, not an ounce to spare to play referee.
“What do you mean, Nins? You have any idea what it’s like to get that call from a hospital? That someone in your family had an attack and lost consciousness on site?”
I let the silence stretch. The warmth of Linc’s hand kept me steady.
“I mean, Lincoln has always been closer to you, and you weren’t too shaken up when he lost almost a decade of memories… So no, I can’t imagine what that was foryouto get that call aboutme.”
Vinny exhaled sharply, the hiss of breath splintered by frustration. He raked his hands through his frizzy hair, jagged waves tangling around his fingers. “So now, this”—he jabbed a finger at our joined hands, his mouth twisting—“is a thing?”
Lincoln said nothing for a minute, but he squeezed my hands to keep them in place when I tried to pull away.
Vinny nodded as his shoulders sagged, and he sank into the metal chair across from Lincoln. Both men stared at each other, the air between them charged with tension.
“No, Vin,” Lincoln said, his voice dropping to something rougher, his gaze darting to our joined hands before adding, “this is not a thing,” and he forced himself to focus on Vinny again.
Vinny pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, as if to wipe away the storm of doubt lodged there, and said, “Cuz, I need you to understand I’ve never known what to do with what I’m about to tell you.” His eyes found mine before he glanced back at his shoes. “What do you remember about living with my parents?”
My breath caught, Lincoln stiffened and checked the oxygen saturation as if he understood what it meant.
“Vin—” My voice caught. I had no interest in speaking ill of his parents. It had taken years for me to stop resenting Aunt Sarah and accept that it was okay she didn’t love me or I her.
“It’s important, Nina. Think of my mom. Think of the noises at night.”
I did, flashes of memories flooding my mind, tiny recurrent things I never thought were important. Aunt Sarah’s hands shaking as she lit another cigarette. Her snapping at me over missing work hours. Uncle Matt slamming his fists on the table and checking the clock way too many times. The front door opening and shutting at odd hours.
“You do, don’t you? My mom would get shaky, she’d be happy, then mad as hell. Dad would get shifty if she took longer to come back from work or the grocery store—” Vin swallowed. “How he’d leave in the middle of the night if Mom didn’t come home, they’d both come back screaming at each other?”
A prickle of discomfort crawled up my spine. “Yeah, I do remember all of that.”
Vin’s knee bounced, his hands knotting together. The air around him felt tighter, his features drawn and shadowed. “My mom… she has some issues.” His lips cinched together, the words sour. Pain flickered across his face, his throat bobbing before he forced them out. “She’s—she’s an addict, Nina.”
I searched for hints in my memories of the year I lived in that house. She’d had mood swings, but I remembered no pills or bottles hidden anywhere.
“Yeah,” Vinny said, shaking his head. His face burned with embarrassment, shame so thick it seemed to weigh down his posture. “Not like that.” He straightened, shoulders squaring.
Vinny dragged his chair closer, knuckles white where he gripped the back before sitting. “Nina”—his voice was rougher now—“right before your parents—” He broke off, jaw flexing. “Things were bad.Reallybad. People showing up at the house. Calling late. Getting louder, aggressive. Demanding what my mom owed.”
I went still, fingers curling against the blanket.
Vinny exhaled hard, his knee bouncing. “She’d fallen in with a bad crowd.” He looked out the window. “Things were…. It’d gotten out of control. We never knew if the car pulling up outside was someone coming to collect or—” He cut himself off, dragging both hands down his face.
The picture formed slowly in my head, ugly and inevitable. When I came to live with them, for that whole summer, everything had been quiet. No knocks. No screaming. No shaky hands. Then came homecoming week…. The fights. The shouting. The late-night whispers. My aunt’s shaking hands, my uncle pacing about to bounce off the walls. It got worse. Until I left and didn’t look back.
I swallowed hard, still raw from the attack, each word scraping my throat on the way out. Of course things hadbeen better after my parents’ deaths. Maybe there had been insurance. Savings. My fucking home…
“How much?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“Too much,” Vin croaked, his voice ragged. “So much.”
My chest tightened—not from asthma this time. They’d used my parents’ money to buy peace in their home.
