Page 77 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I didn’t. I don’t really know what that means. I tell her as much. Free explains about how, in certain adoptions, the birth parents and the adoptive family come to an agreement that permits limited contact—e-mails exchanged, photos shared. She found a dozen e-mails from my parents to Ruby a few weeks after I was born: a timeline of updates and baby pictures.

“Your mom,” Free’s shaking her head, “I don’t know her, but she seems pretty genuine. In every e-mail, she never stopped thanking Momma.”

I grin at my hands. Abby Cameron, sweeter than a bowl of peach cobbler and vanilla-bean ice cream.

“Momma never replied to your parents. Not one single time. Eventually, they stopped writing her.”

My eyes lift, and we share a long, sad stare. The‘and then she died’is left to float in the ether between us.

“I was so angry at her for so long for keeping you from me,” whispers Free, that latch shutting away her anger undone again. “Until I saw those e-mails. Until I realized the reason she couldn’t say a damn thing back was because she didn’t know if she’d done the right thing for both of us.”

“Is that how you found me?”

“It’s not hard to find people nowadays,” she replies. “Social media makes it way too easy. Looked up your parents on Facebook—cute dog by the way.”

“Thanks,” I say, almost laughing.

“Clicked around and there you were.” Free looks away again. “I saw your face and I was a little girl running around the house, shouting about my baby brother again.” Her voice is even softer when she whispers, “I just wanted to know that little boy I never got to meet, to know I wasn’t alone.”

I bite my lip hard enough to taste something sharp, unpleasant. But I don’t flinch in front of Free—only my hand, the one in the middle of the table, a few inches from hers. In my head, I hear a chant, set to my drumming heartbeat:We are not alone. We are not alone.

“God, why’d you let me go all Viola Davis in the middle of a coffee shop?” She laughs again, brighter. Her fingers brush under her eyelids. Maybe she’s trying to disguise the tears. Maybe I’m rubbing my eyes too.

We finish our coffees. An old couple walks in holding hands. The barista seems to be coming down from an espresso high. The music inside Aurora is a little loud—this cool rotation of reggae versions of vintage songs. I like it. Free’s bopping her head. It’s a nice interlude in our awkward silence.

“Tell me about being seventeen in Dunwoody,” she requests with a low sigh. I can tell she’s pretending to be nonchalant. I wonder if she really wants to know, or if this is just our way of walking around the elephant plopped on the table between us. I’m okay with that.

I tell her about school, about the things she couldn’t learn from Facebook. She tells me about her friends, about what she’s studying—biochemistry, because, unlike for me, science is fun for her—and I tell her about Mr. Riley and about Lucy and Rio and my Zombie Café addiction.

“Do you want to know about my family?” I ask, because I’m high on caffeine. I’m cruising on this moment of sharing things about myself without having to set it to pretty little words in the Essay of Doom.

Free says, quick and sharp, “No.”

And I come down from my high. “But—”

“I’m good,” says Free, jaw tightening. “Maybe one day, but not now.”

My mouth hangs open. Something guarded hardens Free’s features, like a great wall protecting a castle. I don’t understand it. Should I? She’s shared so much about Rudy and herself. I want to reciprocate with things about my family. I stare and stare at her until she turns back to me, shrugging.

“Should I not have—”

“We’ve had enough heavy talks for the day,” Free interrupts with a look in her eyes that’s almost fond again. Almost.

“I’m sorry if—”

“It’s cool.” She rests her chin on her knuckles so just enough of her smirk is hidden. “Let’s talk about you and dating.”

I cough into my hand. Is it appropriate to Google-search “How to come out to your newly-found half-sister over coffee?”

“Single,” I choke out.

She taps her fingers on the table. Her nails are painted aqua. I focus on that.

This whole coming out thing—it’s always,alwaysweird. “I’m gay.”

“I guessed.”

My head snaps up, eyes squinted. “What?”

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