“Have you ever thought about writing on the side then, maybe for free for a while?” he says, peering at her over his glasses. “Build up a portfolio and a reputation, hone your craft. Then start looking for a job that will actually pay you to write?”

I often wish I were Donald’s actual son, least not that he could have passed those brains down to me. Being born of crackhead blood is never to your advantage.

“Yes, Donald,” Jessica says. “That’s a great idea. Why not start with travel writing? You’re here, maybe Lachlan could show you some of the hidden spots of our country, the places no one writes about.” She gestures at me with her cup of tea. “Or another article on the organization. Even the gala next week. You could help each other out.”

Kayla and I exchange a glance. I hadn’t thought of that, and clearly neither had she.

“I wouldn’t know who to write for,” she says.

Jessica dismisses that idea with a wave. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I know a lot of people. So does Donald. It wouldn’t be for pay, but like Donald said, just to get your foot in the door and build up your brand. At the same time, Lachlan and the dogs would benefit. What do you say? If I could make this happen, would you be interested?”

Kayla blinks for a moment, then straightens up. “Yes. Yes, of course! That would be great. When is the gala again?”

“On Friday,” Jessica says, and gives me a hard, discerning look. “If I know Lachlan, he’s completely dropped the ball on this one. Wouldn’t be the first time. One year he showed up in his rugby uniform because he came straight after practice.”

I clear my throat. The fucking gala is a fundraiser for the shelter. Jessica hosts it every year, and I just kind of show up, sign autographs, meet people, and put out some good PR for the organization. I usually bring Lionel to the event with me, and he wins people over far better than I can.

“It slipped my mind,” I tell them. “I’ve been…busy.”

Kayla smiles knowingly at that. “It’s okay. Amara told me already. I just wasn’t sure when it was.”

“Always at the start of the season. People are excited for rugby again, and usually I can get a few of my teammates to come show some support.” I pause, very aware of the way Donald and Jessica are staring at me. “I would love it if you would be my date, so long as you don’t mind sharing me with Lionel.”

“You know I don’t.”

“He’s a good one, isn’t he?” Jessica says warmly.

“Who, Lachlan or the dog?”

I let out a small laugh. “Oh, love, please don’t choose.”

My words bring out a look between Donald and Jessica which I do my best to ignore.

The doorbell rings and Jessica gets up. “That must be Brigs.”

Brigs is my brother, and I immediately feel bad that I haven’t gotten in touch with him upon getting back. We’ve had a pretty good relationship, though I put him—and Jessica and Donald—through hell when I was younger. It’s only recently that he’s pulled away more than I have. His wife and child died three years ago in a horrible car crash, and he hasn’t been the same ever since. I understand him, though I can’t say I understand his exact grief—nor would I want to. But I get why he’s distancing himself from everyone around him. It’s not just the pain of loss. He blames himself for the accident since they had a fight beforehand. I never learned what the fight was about, but according to Brigs, it was enough to make him think it was all his fault. Sometimes I want to reach out to him, to tell him I know what guilt is, but I don’t have the courage to even bring up that shit with myself.

“Hey, Mum,” Brigs says, kissing Jessica on both cheeks. Though I call them my parents, I’ve never been able to call them Mum and Dad. I’m not sure if that’s a defense mechanism or what.

Brigs walks in the house and eyes the rest of us in surprise. You can see my cousins in Brigs, and vice versa. He’s tall and athletic, though looking quite thin as of late, with vivid blue eyes that I can’t describe as anything other than haunted. His cheekbones are thanks to Jessica, sharp and angular. When he’s feeling particularly angry, you definitely want to clear the room. I can silence someone with my fists, but he can silence a room with one look.

“Lachlan,” he says, and there’s a gaiety to his voice that wasn’t there before.

I get out of my chair and give him a hug, the old slap on the back.

“Good to see you, brother,” he says, looking me dead in the eye.

“Same to you.”

He looks over my shoulder and raises a brow when he sees Kayla. “And who is this, then?”

I can’t help but beam proudly at her. I probably look quite the fool, but I don’t care.

“This is Kayla. She’s from San Francisco.”

“Is that so?” he asks, and gives her a nod. “First time in Scotland, yeah?”

“It sure is,” Kayla says.

“And you have this ape as your tour guide? I should show you around, yeah? Show you the real Scotland not seen through the eyes of a hothead rugby player,” he says with a big grin. It takes him from sinister to jokester in a flash, and I can see Kayla’s shoulders relax.

“Brigs,” Jessica warns. “Be nice.”

“Nice is a four letter word,” Brigs says, and luckily everyone laughs. It’s nice to see him happy, and for a moment I realize it’s probably nice for everyone to see me happy too.

Soon we gather around the dining room table while Jessica goes about preparing the dinner, a succulent roast duck that Donald says he shot in the Highlands last weekend on a hunting expedition. The wine comes out. It takes a lot out of me, but I decline and have a glass of mineral water instead.

The conversation then moves on to normal topics. Donald discusses his work with the Lions Club, Kayla talks about housing in San Francisco, and I say a few things about rugby practice. Brigs is ever quiet, more so than me, until Jessica starts dishing out the sides and brings up the fact that he’s got a new job.

I don’t make too big of a deal about it because that’s just the way that Brigs is. He lost his job as a teacher after the accident, and has been looking for work ever since. I was never worried—he’s a shrewd guy and a hard worker, he was just going through a lot. But Jessica is bursting with pride. I can tell it makes him uncomfortable.

“Congratulations,” I tell him. “It’s about time. Here’s to that.”

And maybe I’ve said the wrong thing because his eyes narrow sharply and he raises his glass. “Here’s to me? No, no. Here’s to you, Lachlan.”

I frown and he continues, completely sincere. “I’m serious. Really, I’m serious. I don’t think we’ve ever really toasted to Lachlan and the person he’s become.”

There’s a worm of unease in my chest.

Brigs looks at his parents. “Really, I don’t think we have. I think we just opened our arms up to Lachlan and brought him back in, but I don’t think we’ve ever really told him how proud we were that he was able to beat his addiction.”

The globe stops spinning on its axis, just long enough to make me feel sick.

“Brigs,” Jessica warns, in barely above a whisper.

But Brigs isn’t picking up on how still I’ve gotten, on how my hands have curled into tight fists, on how Donald and Jessica are sending him warning looks, and Kayla is staring at me with open confusion. He doesn’t pick up on any of that because he’s looking into his glass of beer like it’s telling him what to say.

“We really thought you were gone, Brother. Meth, heroin. Not many can pull themselves off the streets, pull themselves off the drugs, and actually do something with their lives, but you. You. You’ve done everything you set out to do.” Finally he raises his head to look at me, completely earnest, not noticing my wide, wild eyes. “Here’s to you, Brother. I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad she’s here too.”

The most awkward silence imaginable blankets the room. Everyone eyes each other then slowly reaches for their glass. I can’t even bother reaching for mine. I’m utterly paralyzed. Not just from humiliation, because when you’ve lived for years on the street, you learn to have no shame. None at all. But it’s the fear that grips me, like a vise around my heart, because Kayla didn’t know any of that, and I wasn’t sure I could ever bring it up with her.