Page 102 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“I had a younger brother who was going through things that I didn’t understand, and he didn’t explain. Grandpa wanted me to go across the country, be the ultimate tech geek, but I wanted to be nearby just in case Dawson needed me, because he’d do the same for me. Do you understand?”

I do. It’s why I chose Emory in the first place. I can’t imagine living on the west coast. Or even somewhere like Florida. I can’t be that far from my family. From Willow… in case she needs me.

In caseIneedthem.

“And that path I chose at eighteen didn’t look anything like the one I wanted at sixteen,” says Dad, eyes brighter. “But it’s the path that introduced me to your mom. To a job in Dunwoody. To your birth mother who introduced us to you.”

New tears kiss my cheeks, but not from frustration, not from the unknown, from the love I could feel in my dad’s voice and in the way he held me.

“Your path isn’t determined by an essay. Or a grade. You will find your place only one way—by continuing to walk. Keep walking, kiddo. You’ll get there.”

“And the rest?” I ask.

“The rest we’ll talk about another time. Me, you, and Mom,” says Dad.

“I hurt her,” I whisper, eyes lowered in shame. “I said some awful—”

Dad cuts me off. “It’s okay. She’s okay.” His hand brushes my curls back. “We’ll talk about,” he hesitates, blinking, “your half-sister. We’ll go through all the adoption stuff. The things we know about your birth mother. Together. Just the three of us. If you want?”

I still don’t know if I do. This is my life. This is my dad. I don’t know if I need the rest. But I whisper, “Okay.”

Dad tosses the leftover French toast scraps on the floor for Clover, then walks to the sink. “Talk to Rio,” he says again. He starts washing the dishes.

I pull out my phone and text her:

I miss you.

A lot.

Third grade levels.

And I’m sorry…. Really sorry.

I wait. I see the text bubble appear, disappear. And then nothing. Nothing until my phone lights up. It’s Rio on FaceTime. I answer, and there she is, eyes as green as the face mask she’s wearing: nose scrunched and that Rio smirk.

“It’s about time, Romeo.”

25

The thing about revealing secretsis, your mind is always anticipating six million scenarios of how it’ll go before the secret is ever out: the good, the bad, the zombie apocalypse version. It never goes the way you’re expecting. Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s not a big deal. I’m not sure which of those this moment is.

Lucy’s wide-eyed, jaw agape. I’m certain she hasn’t blinked for a solid two minutes. Rio’s studying me. It’s almost like her detective face—squinted eyes, pinched mouth, lowered eyebrows—but gentler. It’s her journalist face, her compassionate face. I’ve missed that face. I’m glad I apologized. I’m glad she apologized too.

We’re sitting on a blanket in the field behind Maplewood Middle. Memories are stamped onto every inch of our surroundings. The playground’s see-saw is where Lucy had her first kiss. The brick of the building where Rio shoved a kid—the first and last—for making fun of my eye color. The fence we’ve climbed. Yellow-green grass where I watched Elijah play football. Deep blue sky and clouds we’ve laid under, on our backs, and watched for hours. I thought it was the perfect place to tell them about Free and my birth mother.

“Wow,” says Lucy.

“You have a sister,” Rio says for the third time.

“Half-sister,” I say.

“You have a half-sister,” repeats Rio.

I nod. She continues to scrutinize me.

“And your parents know?” asks Lucy.

I nod again. She finally blinks.

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