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Marcus would barely look at me when they dropped me off at my apartment the night he beat the hell out of Greg, and Ryland made it clear as fucking day that he’s opposed to this entire thing. So maybe he did convince his friend to, if not give up this obsession entirely, at least back off. And Theo? I don’t know. Maybe the startling chemistry that flashed between us when I kissed him scared him as much as it terrified me.
My life feels strangely barren without their dominating, overwhelming presence in it, and I remind myself frequently that this is what “normal” feels like. That I just need to get used to it again, and once I do, it’ll feel like it’s supposed to. Like it’s right.
Of course, even if I don’t see them during the day, I haven’t really escaped them. They still barge into my dreams every night, messing with my head and my heart.
On the sixth morning of this strange new normal, I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling. The sudden quiet and calm in my life has given me a lot of time to think, and something Marcus said the night I went over to his house keeps rising up to the top of my mind.
I think it’s your brother.
I can still remember the utter confidence in his voice, and something about it plucks a string in my heart, strumming the same note over and over.
Hope.
He seemed so certain that the little boy in the faded picture is really my brother. And even though it’s entirely possible he was just trying to get laid again or tell me what I wanted to hear, I don’t quite believe that.
Marcus Constantine doesn’t seem like the kind of man who tells anybody anything just because they want to hear it.
My search for my brother has always been a long shot. I have a single photograph, no name, and no real memories of my own. Just some half-remembered, fuzzy images in my head and a story a girl from foster care told me.
I’ve done dozens of internet searches, taken trips to the Child Protective Services office, and spent hours poring over old newspapers at the
library on the off-chance his name was mentioned there or I could track down another picture of him. I even hired a low-rent detective once when I was fourteen who didn’t do anything but try to put his hand up my skirt.
There’s no reason to think my search will go better this time. I haven’t actively looked for my brother in years, and nothing has changed in the meantime to make me feel like I’ll have more luck now.
But for some reason, for the first time in months, I want to try.
Maybe it’s because of what Marcus said, the way he looked at the photo and then traced the lines of my face so meticulously.
Or maybe it’s because, no matter how conflicted my feelings for the three men are, I can clearly see their devotion to each other. And I want something like that for myself.
I want a family.
I want someone I can trust with everything that I am.
I want someone to watch out for.
Because watching out for myself is fucking exhausting.
Whether a brother I don’t remember and whose name I don’t even know could ever become that to me is something I’ll deal with in the extremely unlikely event that I actually find him.
In the meantime, renewing my search will at least give me some sense of purpose. And it’ll be a much needed distraction from my whirling thoughts.
So I throw the covers off, shower and dress, and then head out of my apartment.
The bus to the Child Protective Services office takes nearly an hour. It’s a roll of the dice to come down here in person. They’re understaffed and underpaid, so all they want to do is get rid of anyone they don’t absolutely have to deal with. But it’s too easy for them to brush me off over the phone. Plus, the only piece of evidence I have is a picture, and that’s useless if they can’t see the damn thing.
The building is a squat, concrete slab. The inside is just as dull and gray as the outside, as if they’re afraid that bright colors will scare the kids or something. When I reach the front desk, a woman with a sweaty brow and a pinched face looks up at me, wheezing slightly as if she just climbed several flights of stairs.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” I give her an encouraging smile, resting the elbow of my good arm on the counter. I wore my prosthesis again today, and the straps of the harness sit heavily on my shoulders under my jacket. “I’m looking for information about my brother.”
She squints at her computer. “Your name?”
“Ayla Fairchild.”
She types it in, then leans even closer to peer at the screen. I know she’s pulled up the record of my own time under CPS’s care, and my skin itches uncomfortably as I think of everything she must be reading. Memories I have no desire to revisit.
