Page 76 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Never seen it.”

Free’s neon-bright laughter has darkened. “The irony of that movie and her life.”

“Did she like music?”

“Jazz,” she says. Her eyes are crinkled, amused. “And anything by a singer-songwriter.”

I sense Dad would appreciate that. Maybe Dad and Ruby would’ve been friends. Maybe I shouldn’t think that way.

“What—” My throat closes around the rest of the words. Behind my eyes, this throbbing sting begins.I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready… “Why did she—”

Free lowers her cup. Her hand is warm, strong, as it wraps around mine. My hand is trembling. That little spark of brightness returns to her eyes. She squeezes my hand.

“That man and our mother dated for a few months. Then she found out she was pregnant with you. It wasn’t a fairytale love, but she seemed happy.” Free holds my gaze. “She loved him. Hardcore. But he wasn’t in love with her. He loved the thought of being loved, but not returning it.” That sounds familiar, like a page in a book I’ve read cover-to-cover.

“Six months into her pregnancy, he bailed. She crumpled like wet paper.”

I suck in a breath, though my lungs hurt, though every part of me is numb except that sensation behind my eyes and the skin her hand touches.

“My dad always said, ‘Ruby loved the sauce.’ He’s one of those true-blue southerners.” Free’s laugh is cracked, sad. Her curls fall around her jaw in a dark hood that makes her eyes wider. “She loved to drink, Remy. And she did. Before you. After you. It was her thing. She was an alcoholic—your daddy was just the gateway to her depression.”

“He’s not my daddy.”

She nods, once, smiling but not smiling. “No, he’s not.”

“Why’d she give me up?”

It’s hard not to compact all my curiosity and fear and anger into those five words, five words I never wanted an answer to. I still don’t think I do. But they’re out, hovering between us like a giant spaceship waiting to crash-land into my chest.

Free pulls her hand back. She slouches, not looking at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe this is the one thing Free can’t give me.

“Momma always said, ‘He’s better off where he’s at.’ Every time I asked, I got that same response. I was six when you were born.” Her eyes fall on me, dark and full. “It ain’t easy going from rubbing your mom’s stomach waiting on your little brother to arrive to finding out you’re never gonna meet him. That he’s been taken in by another family. That your mother thinks all the things you have are too worthless to raise a new baby in. That your new brother deserves more, but all of this is good enough for you.”

Anger lives in Free’s voice, but it’s not for me. I can tell. It’s for Ruby. Most of it is for the guy who made her fall in love, then left. None of it’s for me, but here it is: loud and fiery and smacking me in the face.

“I’m sorry.”

Free tuts, shaking her head. “Don’t be. My life, where I’m fromisgood enough. I’m damn good enough.”

I don’t know how to reply. I almost reach out to grab her hand. I sense she doesn’t want me to. This isn’t Free looking for comfort. This is Free rejecting Ruby’s messed-up idealism.

“When I was younger—after you were born, I used to wonder about you. Wondered if your life truly was so much better without us,” says Free. That hint of resentment still lingers. Even if her expression doesn’t announce it, the tightness of her voice does. “I kept asking and asking about you. What you looked like. Where you were. Was your favorite color purple like mine? But Momma never would tell me.”

And that’s how we’re different. Free wanted to know things about me. I never wanted to know anything other than my family: my parents and Willow.

She shrugs weakly. “Then I gave up.”

I almost reach for her hand again.

“Until Momma died.” She chews on her straw, traces the names on the table with her eyes. “I was eighteen.”

I hiccup, hand over my mouth.Eighteen. I’ll be eighteen in a year. How would I survive without my parents? I wouldn’t.

Free says, “It’s like curiosity reached into my chest, tore away all the muscle and bone, and reminded me, ‘I’m not alone. There’s someone else.’”

“Me,” I whisper.

“You.” She hums. “Luckily, Momma wasn’t great with all her secrets. I knew her passwords. Did a little snooping in her e-mails. It was an open adoption, you know?”

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