“Well,” I say, forcing lightness as I turn back to him. I toss my hair over my shoulder, aware of his eyes tracking the movement. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Oh?” he asks, attention snapping back. He stares at me, trying to decide if I’m teasing him or testing him. “Like what?”
“Um…” I tilt my head, pretending to think, dragging it out longer than necessary. “I’m a good artist. I’ll draw your portrait this week.” I let my gaze drag over his face until he clears his throat, fidgeting. “I’ll need to study you first.” I tip up my chin, puff out my chest, going for playful but daring. “It’ll be so good, you’ll want to hang it somewhere important. Maybe over your fireplace.”
I think back, trying to remember the rooms I’ve walked through since I got here, but I can’t think of a single framed photo. Not one. My smile softens, curiosity slipping in.
“Actually…” I swivel back to him, more serious now. “How come there aren’t any pictures of you? Or your dad? I haven’t seen a single family photo.” A small grin tugs at my lips. “I was hoping for baby Carrson or at least awkward teenage Carrson I could blackmail you with.”
I know I’ve stumbled into forbidden territory by the way he stiffens.
“There aren’t any pictures of me.”
“None?”
“Nope.” He digs into the pancakes, and I smile when he mumbles, “These are really good.” He takes another heaping forkful. Then another.
“My father didn’t take pictures of me. Maybe the other parents have some from parties when we were younger. They’d line us kids up and say cheese.” He’s attacking the eggs now, eyes on his plate. “Any pictures of my father and ancestors I took down once he was gone.”
“Why?” I pick up a piece of bacon, admire how perfectly crispy it is, and then nibble on the end.
“I got rid of all his stuff. Clothing, letters, everything.” He says it casually, as if it’s normal to remove all traces of your parent when they die.
“Did you give them away?” I ask.
“I burned them.” He pauses, a forkful lifted in the air. His gaze goes distant. “Built a big bonfire. There was so much smoke. It made my eyes water.” He refocuses back on me. “He would have done the same thing if I’d died. He hated me.”
“What?” I lean back in my seat, my food cooling untouched in front of me. “How could that be? He was your dad.”
“He never acted like one.” He shrugs. “Why? Were your parents nice? Did they treat you well?”
I hesitate, not sure how to answer. I’ve spent a long timenotthinking about my parents. It’s easier that way. Thinking about them means thinking about Remi, and that never goesanywhere good.
“My parents are kind. Nice,” I say. “But in a small way.” I pick at the edge of my plate. “My sister was sick a lot. Most of the time, it was me asking her doctors what was going on. I’d research things, try to find new treatments…” I pause. “There weren’t many.”
Carrson doesn’t interrupt, but he’s watching me, paying attention.
“I used to push the doctors,” I go on. “Beg them to do more. Try harder. I couldn’t understand how my parents could say they loved her and not fight for her the way I thought they should.” Using my fork, I poke at my eggs, then take a bite, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“It caused problems,” I add a second later. “Between us.”
I swallow, my appetite gone.
“I told myself I wouldn’t resent them.” I put my fork down, line it up neatly with the edge of my plate. “I wasn’t very good at that.” My fingers curl around my glass, but I don’t lift it. “My sister was always better than me,” I say. “She said I was too hard on them. That they were doing everything they could.”
I shake my head, a small, helpless motion.
“But I don’t know how that’s true.” My gaze drops to my plate. “Because she still died.”
I snap my mouth shut, the instinct to take it back hitting too late. I’ve never said all that out loud before. Never laid everything—Remi, my parents, me—out in a neat row for someone else to see. I shouldn’t have, except Carrson stayed so quiet. He gave me all this space, and I felt a need to fill it.
I expect Carrson to say nothing or to change the conversation. Instead, he sets his fork down. “You loved her more loudly. That doesn’t mean they didn’t love her too.”
“I know.” I drop my head, understanding he’s right.
“The other part, thinking like that’ll eat you alive.”
My forehead wrinkles. “What?”
