“Where do you keep all of our childhood pictures?”

She shuts the door and crosses her arms over her chest, looking me up and down—I’m sure taking in everything she hasn’t seen in a while. “You look just like your father.”

It’s a dig, one I was expecting.

“Where are the pictures?”

She leans against the wall and gives me a withering look. “Thad called and told me what happened. Sleeping with the competition? Something your father would have done.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Pictures, Mom. Where are they?”

“I heard about Walter Reed’s divorce from Florence. She told me you didn’t push for the yacht. Losing your touch?”

I take a deep breath and count to five in my head, trying to replicate the coping techniques Margaret taught me yesterday.

“Am I going to have to tear your place apart to find them? Because I will.”

“Why are you here? To patch things up? Now that your brother has decided to give up on you?”

“I’ve been trying to patch up that relationship for the last two months, but thanks to you, I have no idea how to have a healthy relationship—with anyone. But that ends now. I know I can’t repair whatever happened with us. I’m not even sure I want to, but there’s hope for Thad.”

Her eyes narrow and her shoulders stiffen. I’m contemplating the possibility of actually tearing the place apart when she says, “Under the TV, in the living room.”

Before she can say anything else, I stride into the living room and go straight to the cabinets. I pull them open and find exactly what I’m looking for: “The Thad and Alec Album” our nanny made for me when I graduated high school. I left it with Thad, knowing he would need it more. I tuck it under my arm and head back to the entryway. My mom is still standing there, blocking the door, her arms hugging her torso.

“You always reminded me of him,” she says, quietly. “The spitting image of your father. The only thing you got from me were my eyes. But everything else is from him . . . his charm, his intelligence, his wit. It was hard to be around you, to see you and not treat you like you’re the one who hurt me.”

I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “That doesn’t give you the right—”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s just a fact—one I’m not proud of, but one you should know.” She looks up at me. “I’m not claiming I was a great mom; probably never will be. But you gave me moments, moments to be better, like when you would come into my room and try to cheer me up. But I never took them. I didn’t think I could—I didn’t think I deserved them. And now, well . . . I’m too bitter, and I don’t think that will ever change. And you might be right: we might never have a relationship. There’s too much bad blood, but Thad . . .” She pats her heart. “Thad needs you, Alec. He always has, and despite what he might have said this past weekend, he always will. If I did anything right in this life, it was making sure you two were never split up. I wasn’t nurturing or supportive, but I always knew you two belonged together. Fix this, and keep it that way.”

My chest tightens as acceptance brims in my heart. Acceptance of what could have been but never will, acceptance of my mom’s admission, and acceptance that this is what my relationship will be with her. I give her a curt nod.

Her honesty moves me more than I ever thought possible, so when I find myself leaning forward and giving her a hug, I surprise myself more than I surprise her.

It’s brief.

It’s uncomfortable.

It’s not something I could see myself doing again.

But it was needed.

When I pull away, I say, “See you at the wedding.”

She nods. As I leave her apartment, I glance behind me and see the smallest glint of a tear in the corner of her eye.

It’s not the beginning of anything, not the start of a much-needed mending, and it’s not the love I want, the love I’ve needed my entire life. But it’s something I can build off in my pursuit to mend things with Thad, and to start living a healthier mental life.

“Motherfucking tape,” I growl out as I shake my hand, desperately trying to relieve my finger of the double-sided tape that won’t fucking give up. Unable to shake it, I pick up my water glass, press it down on the loose piece of tape, and free my finger. “Finally.”

I exhale and lean back in my chair, inspecting the book in front of me.

In my head, this was going to be so much better than it actually is. It looks like a second grader put it together, not a man in his thirties who’s been tying his shoes for over twenty-five years.

I might have been “crafting” for the past two months, but it’s obvious it hasn’t rubbed off on me—too bad I’ve run out of other options.

If Luna were here, I know this would have been better. She’d have helped me with my vision, guided me, encouraged me, just like everything else in my life.

Picking up my phone, I flip it over so I can see the screen. Nothing.

No messages.

No calls.

Silence.

Not hearing from her has to be the most wretched and gut-wrenching thing I’ve ever experienced, because all I can think about is whether she truly meant what she said in her apartment.

That she chose wrong.

That she regrets everything we shared.

And that realization steals my breath, leaving me with depleted lungs and a goddamn broken heart.

I swing my legs off the bed and push my hands through my hair, trying to shake off the empty feeling that’s taking up more space in my heart with each day that goes by that I don’t hear from Luna. I think she’s truly done with me.

But I need to set my heartbreak aside and focus on another relationship.

Thad and Naomi’s wedding is in four days, and it’s been four days since the big blowup. Thad should have had enough time to at least calm down, which is important. When it comes to my brother, reasoning is out of the question when he’s hysterical. But today is the day, whether I’m ready or not. It’s time to face the music.

I rock back on my heels, clutching Thad’s present to my side as I wait for him to answer the door. I sent a text to Naomi earlier, asking her if I could come over. I explained to her that I’m trying, and that I want to patch things up before the wedding. Her response was brief, but she said she’d make sure Thad was home. Now I’m wondering if she set me up, since no one is answering the door.

I’m shifting from side to side, ready to knock again, when the door finally cracks open. Half of Thad’s face appears—his eyes immediately narrow.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“I’m good.” He goes to shut the door, but I palm the wood and push forward. I’ve always been stronger than Thad—I’m glad that hasn’t changed as I push my way into the apartment and shut the door behind me. “You can’t just come in here—”

I thrust the ribbon-wrapped box toward him. “I made you something.”

He stares at the box but doesn’t take it. “What do you mean you made me something?”

“I mean exactly what I said. I made you something.”

“Why?”

Okay, this is going to be much harder than I thought.

I sigh. “Because, Thad, I love you. I care about you. And I hate that I hurt you. I want to show you that despite what you might think, I really want to be a part of your life.” I hold out the box again. He takes it this time but doesn’t say anything; he just unties the ribbon and lifts the lid.

I chew on the inside of my lip as he reveals the small scrapbook I put together. It’s full of pictures of our past: the two of us as kids and teenagers, running around and getting into trouble, giving each other bunny ears and grinning at the camera. As he flips through the pages, his face remains expressionless, stoic, as if someone slipped him a Xanax before I came over.

I clear my throat. “I, uh . . . I split the book up into three parts. The past, the present, and the future. I wanted to remind you of what we shared as kids.” He continues to flip through the pictures, faster than I expected. “Show you the present, the few pictures we’ve taken recently.” He flips again. “And then the future. Those pages are empty, because, uh, I want to fill them with what I hope will be memories of me, you, Naomi, and your child.”

He snaps the album closed and tucks it under his arm. I want to tell him I worked really fucking hard on it, even if it looks like I paid a child to make it. I want to force him to listen to me, really listen, and understand everything I’m trying so hard to communicate.

But from his blank expression, I have a feeling this is not going to go in my favor.

“Why her?” he asks. “Out of all the women in New York, why her?” Yup, I was right. This is not going to go the way I planned.

But I want to make good with him, so I follow his lead. “She understood me, saw me, really saw who I was.”

“Well, at least someone does,” Thad replies, nodding toward the door. “You can show yourself out.”