“I know the difference between ‘who’ and ‘whom.’”
He lifts a brow. “Really?”
“No. Not at all. You know, you don’t have to come to Europe with me. If you want to go back to New York and work on your stuff for a while? I feel like my tour has stolen both our lives.”
He kisses the side of my temple. “It gave me life, Tweety. We’re finishing this thing together. You and me. Until the final performance. And beyond.”
I have a month off. A little time of reprieve before we take the leap over the ocean and start the second phase of the tour. We chose to come back to Las Vegas, stay close to Claire with the baby due any day now.
I smile. “And beyond,” I echo, looking forward to the quiet after the storm. More normalcy, more magical, yet regular moments like this one. Just sharing pizza with the man I love.
My phone buzzes on the table, interrupting our moment. I glance at the screen and feel my heart do a little skip when I see the name.
Dylan Perry
The message preview shows a wall of lowercase text, and I’m already smiling before I even open it.
“Who’s that?” Taio asks, reading my expression.
“My brother.” I swipe to open the message. “He found something. Said he wanted to send it over.”
Taio wraps his arm around me, sliding in closer so he can see the screen. His hand settles on my lower back. He does this thing where he taps out a little rhythm with his pinky finger, like he’s playing a tiny piano on my spine. It’s his secret code for “I’m here.” Whenever anything pertaining to my biological dad surfaces, his fingers start their silent concert against my vertebrae. It’s still a sensitive subject.
I stalled for months after finding my mother’s letter. I debated, back and forth—what was worth knowing, what was better to let go. But in the end, curiosity claimed me, like Black Cat and the can of Cheez Whiz he massacred. And also like the big, cat-cheese incident we now call the Kansas City “shitsplosion,” it came with consequences.
More heartbreak.
Liam Perry died six years ago. He was survived by his wife of thirty-two years and his two sons. Also, by the daughter he didn’t get to know He’s gone, but it doesn’t mean I can’t still get to know him—or at least that’s what my new half brothers, who were more welcoming and loving than I could’ve hoped for, said to me. For now it’s just video chats and text messages, but we have plans to meet.
Dylan
hey so i was trying to dig up pictures for you and found this box of old paperwork in dad’s desk. most of it was tax stuff but there was one that i think you should see.
i asked mom if it was okay to send and she said yes. i think she feels bad about not wanting to meet you. she’s just not ready yet. but she wanted you to have this.
it’s from your mom.
The lack of capitals still drives me bananas. Every text looks like a stream of consciousness that forgot to get dressed before leaving the house. But I’ve learned that’s just Dylan—thoughtful, rambling, and completely incapable of locating the shift key. Our older brother Tyler, thank goodness, texts in complete sentences with proper punctuation. Dylan is the one who asks me for music and movie recs and sends me bizarre recipes like those spaghetti chili hot dogs that most definitely don’t look “fire.” Tyler, being more protective, sends simply check-in texts paired with articles about travel fatigue and homeopathic remedies. His wife is a wellness coach and doula and has an herbal remedy forliterally everything.
I love it. I love having brothers who text me about random things. I love that six weeks ago we were strangers, and now they’re part of my life like they’ve always been there.
Another message comes through—this one an image. I tap to expand it, and suddenly I’m looking at a photograph of a handwritten letter. The paper is yellowed with age, the ink slightly faded, but the handwriting is unmistakable.
My mother’s.
I’d know it anywhere. The slight forward slant. The way she curved her lowercase “y”s.
“Is that…” Taio’s voice is soft.
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “It looks like it’s from her. To him.”
I zoom in on the image, and together, we read.
Liam,
I’ve been staring at this blank page for three days, trying to find the right words. There aren’t any. There’s no right way to say what needs to be said, so I’m just going to say it plainly and trust that you’ll hear what I mean.
What you did was wrong.
