Page 100 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Along the walls of Dad’soffice is a photographic walk through our family history: Mom in the kitchen, beaming over a peach pie, Grandpa holding me in a rocking chair, Dad in his varsity football uniform, Willow’s toothless grin on her fourth birthday. My favorite one is from the first day my parents brought me home. I don’t know why. But there’s something about Mom’s glassy eyes and Dad tentatively cradling me like a balloon that might pop; their smiles, identically wide, almost too big for their faces; and my tiny fingers curled into Dad’s shirt—just the three of us.

That’s messed up, right? Willow’s the best sister ever. But there are moments where I miss being all my parents could think about. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe we shouldn’t rush to grow up and make our own choices. Maybe you can’t really get those days back.

I wonder what Free’s childhood home looked like. Did Ruby have any photos of a toothless Free? Any birthday pictures? Did she keep any photos of me that my parents e-mailed her? I quickly ditch that thought. I don’t care. I don’t want to know anymore.

“Hey, kiddo?”

I startle. In the doorway, Dad’s watching me. He’s backlit by the hallway light, gauzy yellow across his rust-colored hair, against his stubble and warm blue eyes. He looks tired, happy but tired.

“Everything okay?”

I stare at him, unblinking.

When I was younger, I’d come stumbling into this office and crawl into Dad’s lap. I’d go on and on about whatever was on my mind: cartoons and the sky and kids at school, the new baby growing in Mom’s tummy. Everything. Just me and Dad. Now it seems like a hundred million years ago, like I can’t be that kid anymore, like I can’t tell Dad everything.

“Kiddo?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Really?”

I can almost hear it in his voice—the doubt. Maybe Mom told him what happened. “It’s nothing, Dad.”

“But—”

“I’m fine.” It’s such a lie. It tastes sour, like drinking Coke after brushing your teeth.

“Come on.” Dad motions to the hall. “Let me show you something.”

“What?”

“Something cool.”

Peanut-butter-and jelly-stuffed French toast, theend-all of breakfast-bread meals, the Godzilla of French toast. It’s Dad’s favorite recipe—mine too—and he only breaks it out for special occasions: New Year’s Day, my parents’ anniversary, my birthday. It’s a rigorous process; precision is key. There’s a rule that no one can talk to Dad while he’s creating. We’re not even allowed in the kitchen. But, this time, he’s teaching me the recipe. This time, I’m a part of creating something cool.

Bobby Flay, eat your heart out.

It’s after nine p.m. Willow’s already asleep. Mom’s in the living room binge-watching grim crime shows to exorcise the life of a wedding consultant. It’s Dad and me—and Clover, but she’s the exception to every rule, as all good dogs are.

Dad walks me through all the steps. He lets me do everything. Sometimes, he stands over me, guides my hand or directs with his words. Mostly, he leans against the island, observing. And every time I look over my shoulder, he’s smiling.

We eat at the island instead of the table. One plate, two forks. We don’t say much, but I don’t think either one of us knows what to say. There’s a mystery between sons and fathers. It’s a universal rule that they can be in the same space and never be able to say things—stupid rule.

“Tell me,” Dad says.

“Tell you?”

He digs into the fluffy bread until creamy peanut butter and sticky jelly spews from both sides. “Whatever. Anything. Tell me, kiddo.”

I stare at him. His soft features are happy and tired. It’s the same dad who held me in his lap while I talked for hours. He’s still him. And I’m still… I think I’m still me.

Dad nudges my elbow. “It’s just me.” It’s just my dad.

“I have a birth sister. A half-sister.”

I wait for his reaction. Surprise. Anger. Disappointment in me for hiding this. But he does this little eyebrow lift, chews quietly, and then says, “Tell me, kiddo.”

My brain and heart are moving in two different directions, stretching my insides like a rubber band. I don’t know where to start, how to start. But I try—from the beginning.

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