He never bought into the political machine life that our parents created, and he never appreciated how they pushed aside my problems to take the next Senate seat.

But we were kids, and kids can’t do much to protect themselves.

Maybe that’s why I loved Rike. What drew me to him. He was another broken child forgotten by the people who were supposed to care for him.

“Want to storm around and break shit, or do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I drawl.

Brody gives me a dark look, and I smirk. Because he might be all grown up and a badass, but he’ still my baby brother. I cross my arms. “Spit it out.”

“Mom and Dad want to have a family dinner.”

“Fuck,” I mutter.

He laughs, and nods. “Exactly. Better find something appropriate to wear.”

I snarl a curse, and he snorts. “I wonder if I could wear the leather skirt and my skull and crossbones shirt. I wore that last time. Bonus points for wardrobe reappearances.”

Brody’s eyebrows shoot up. “You remember that?”

“What?” I ask, flipping my sketchbook back open.

“Wearing that outfit. It was the day Rike met them. Do you remember?”

I stare at him, confusion crowding me. I don’t. I don’t remember anything about Rike meeting my parents, or why on earth I ever thought that was a good idea. I shake my head helplessly and he sighs. The anger drains away and he comes to the couch, brushing my legs as he drops down. I reach out and snag his beer.

It’s still weird that my baby brother can legally drink.

“Do you feel up to it?”

“To seeing Mom and Dad? Fuck no. But I suppose I need to. I can’t avoid them forever.”

He shrugs. “You were doing a pretty damn good job of doing it forever before this shit.” I wrinkle my nose at him and he laughs. “Fine. This weekend?”

“Ok,” I say quietly.

“Good. You want the little Chinese place tonight?” he asks, pushing to his feet. I nod and yawn as he pads into the kitchen to order takeout and set up the dreaded dinner with my parents.

I really will have to go shopping before Saturday.

***

Brody and I play a game, every night while the news plays quietly in the background. It doesn’t really have a name, and he would say it’s nothing at all, but it is.

It always starts the same.

“Do you remember when you were going to senior prom, and Dad set you up with Tripp Harris?”

I roll my eyes. “How could I forget that? It was awful. Tripp spent weeks trying to talk me into going and Mom bought that hideous dress and then I blew it off—went to the cabin with Lacy and a few other girls. A couple guys. Dad was so fucking pissed when I got home.”

Brody grins. “You should have seen him in the two days before you came home. I’ve seen Dad mad, but I don’t think it’s ever been that bad.”

I shrug. Grin. “He could have called the cops. There was nothing stopping him from that. It was his choice to keep shit quiet to protect the campaign.”

Brody’s smile slips, and I shift. “Do you remember when you came to Knoxville for the first time to visit me?” I ask.

This is where the game is actually played. When I can get my brother to tell me things I don’t know, filling in the events of the years that are still a black hole. The journals have helped so much. I feel like I know who Rike and Scott are. Instead of two strangers who were trying to share my life, they’ve become two friends who are important for very different reasons. Lindsay—I twist, shaking my head. I can’t think about Linds without wanting to cry. Can’t imagine a girl as brilliant and beautiful and alive trapped in a wheelchair.

I shake the melancholy and listen to Brody spin out the story that was mine, and try to ignore the pull of the three people I called family.

***

He’s been trying to get in touch with me. I can’t talk to him, can’t hear his voice without hearing it hoarse and broken as he came inside me. And I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let that happen.

He texts a lot—more than I think Brody suspects, although he knows some of it. And I told Rike before I left Austin where I was going and that I would be back. But it’s been almost a month, and nothing has changed. I know more, but it’s secondhand knowledge, the kind that comes from hearing about something instead of experiencing it.

I know he wants me home. But so far, Rike has respected my boundaries.

Rike: What did you do today?

Me: Brody took me to a clothing store I used to love, and I bought a couple outfits. We’re having dinner with my parents this weekend, so I thought it was warranted.

Rike: You promised me you wouldn’t see them without me.

Me: I don’t remember making that promise. Besides, it’s harmless. Nothing will happen.

There is a long pause, and then he sends a short response.

Rike: Fine.

I stare at the phone for a long minute, waiting for something else, but there isn’t anything. So he’s mad, and I get to deal with my parents.

This week is looking better and better. I grab my notebook and crawl into bed.

I don’t write poetry often—despite it being something I love, I don’t think I’m very good at it. But as I stare at the blank page, the words start coming. And I write.

***

Brody glances at me as we walk up the paved walkway to my parents’ overly large house. He arches an eyebrow. “You ready, princess?”

I make a face and nod at him. He grins and shoves open the door, giving the housekeeper a quick kiss on the cheek before he yells, “Ma! Dad! We’re here.”

I swallow my laugh and follow him more slowly, hugging Maria before venturing deeper into the house.

It looks exactly like I remember. A house that could fit so easily in a magazine, the décor and pictures chosen to reflect who we are as a family rather than what we love. My nose wrinkles in annoyance, but there is no denying that the familiarity, so fucking rare these days, is comforting.

Brody is in the formal dining room, talking to my mother and Cassidy while Mom fiddles with a centerpiece of brilliant red roses. Her expression, when she finally looks at me, is confusing. There’s a flash of guilt and concern, and then it smoothes back into the bland polite smile she perfected years ago.

“Peyton. You look”—her gaze skims over my tight red sundress. It’s vintage, with wide, white straps and an oversized white bow. It’s almost demure. It would be, if I had buttoned all the buttons up the sweetheart neckline. Her lip tighten—“interesting.”

I smile, too sweet, “You look like you just stepped off the campaign trail. So I guess we’re both the same as we were yesterday.”

“Maybe don’t start fighting before we sit down to dinner, Peyton?” Cassidy says sharply. I ignore her. I’ve been doing that since before high school so it’s not terribly difficult to continue the trend now.

“Where is Dad?” I ask as Maria begins carrying in our dinner. I shift, look at Mom.

“He’ll be here soon,” she says stiffly. With that familiar cold displeasure.

She might be a good little campaigner, and do everything he needs in public, but Mom hasn’t ever appreciated the time commitments and how often she was left behind for it.

He lied to her too, when he decided to run for office. He promised that we would stay close, that nothing in our family would change. I think that’s why I hate him so much. I never told Rike that. But once upon a time, before politics and that fucking elusive Senate seat, Dad was a good dad. Attentive. Mom was cool, but she wasn’t cold.

That changed. Almost overnight.

I shove the thought aside, and follow Maria into the kitchen where I grab a plate of garlic chicken. She gives me a small smile.

“Really, Peyton, that’s her job.”