He reminded me of our mother. There was a cloud following them both, and you can still see it in his eyes, even now. There’s something that wasn’t as easy for them as it was for the rest of us.

And when I was eleven and he hit me, it devastated me more than losing both of my parents within eight weeks of each other that previous year. I cried and cried, not because the spanking hurt, but because I felt hated.

Because he hated me.

At least that’s what I thought until later that night when I found him sitting at the kitchen bar, his head in his hands as he quietly cried in the dark.

He never apologized, but he never did it again. And over time I came to understand that my oldest brother was only twenty-three that night, and twenty-three is still so young. That he was suddenly in charge of three minors to feed and clothe, a mountain of debt, and the prospect that life would never be more than this for him. That even when we grew up, Iron would always be a problem, and Army and Trace would be bringing babies into the world they couldn’t support on their own. Macon would be the one everyone turned to, because he was the “adult.” He always took care of us. You always felt lonely in a room with him, but you were never alone, and if we took anything into this world, it was that.

We didn’t know if he loved us, but he would always stay.

I could rely on him like I never could my mother, and I craved his approval and respect like I never did with my father. I look around the table again, wishing he was here. What is he doing now? What does he do when he’s alone?

“Fuckin’ Saints think they own this place already,” I hear someone say.

I blink, snapping out of my thoughts as I set my sundae aside. I look up, following my brothers’ gazes.

Milo Price and Callum Ames eye us as they head up the sidewalk to the entrance of the restaurant, followed by Becks and Krisjen. Becks waves at me, offering a contrite smile that says she tried to talk them out of it. I don’t wave back, but Aracely looks between us, and I can just tell this is all my fault. Somehow.

“They never will,” Trace replies. “They will never own this place.”

I yank over one of the trays and start in on what crawfish is left, wishing they were just here to eat, but I know they’re not. Why else would they cross the tracks to dine at a mosquito-infested, converted garage with rolls of paper towels instead of napkins on the tables and peeling linoleum floors?

Sanoa Bay is an unincorporated neighborhood of St. Carmen, but it may as well be the moon. They’re Saints. We’re Swamp. We share a zip code. That’s it.

Aracely starts mumbling under her breath, and then she hikes up the volume, barking something in Spanish. I flick my gaze to Army and see he’s already eyeing me. Like Macon, he speaks Spanish and understands her. Unfortunately, by the time Iron was born, our parents got tired and stopped raising their children bilingual.

But Army’s face tells me she’s talking about me. Like I didn’t already know that.

“Just don’t,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Yeah, every time you’re not talking to me, you’re speaking Spanish,” I snap back. “They’re not my friends, okay?”

I didn’t invite them. Just because we go to the same school…

“You’re with them more than you’re home,” she counters.

A bitter laugh catches in my throat, and I straighten up, looking around the table for support. “I’m at school. Or work. Or practice.”

Iron sighs, trying to keep the peace. “It’s okay.”

But he says it to me as if I’m the asshole losing my temper here. She started it.

“I mean, what does she want from me?” I bark back at him. “Macon sent me to Marymount, I didn’t want to go. I’m not one of them.”

She spits something back in Spanish again and I can make out enough to hear, “Are you one of us?”

Gritting my teeth, I shove my chair and storm from the table as a couple of my brothers groan and Iron grumbles something to his ex.

Stepping into the restaurant, I ignore the looks my direction and head for the bathroom, but think twice, needing fresh air instead. Heading right, I push through the double doors, seeing staff look up from their work, but I’m out the back door before Mariette has a chance to ask me what I’m doing in her kitchen.

Letting the door slam shut, I draw in a deep breath of thick air and fall back against the wall, the music of the locusts and frogs filling the night in the thicket beyond. Trees stretch high past the dirt road, and I can see the faint touch of moonlight on the water that still looks green despite how dark it is.

I stare ahead, lost in thought again.

My family thinks they’re strong, but we’re as brittle as a pie crust. With the knowledge that we’re together, it gives us confidence, but leaving will diminish that just enough for Dallas to leave next. And then Trace and Army, and Iron, and what will all of Macon’s sacrifices be for?

I hate that he’s asking me to stay, but I know why he feels owed. If I leave, I’ll find success, but it’ll be at the expense of my home. And I love my family.

Tears fill my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I realize what Macon must’ve felt when he left the Marines.

And I know exactly what would’ve happened to us if he hadn’t. Where would I have been without him?

“Lost?” someone says.

I turn my head, seeing Megan approach. Her blonde hair blurs, and I wipe my eyes, standing up straight and clearing my throat.

“No.” I force a laugh. “You?”

“Not at all.” She holds up a brown, plastic grocery bag, one of Mariette’s pie boxes inside.

Scratch what I said about the Saints crossing the tracks for no reason. The key lime pie here is the draw, they just always get it to-go.

She stops in front of me, and I avoid her gaze until I blink away the rest of the tears.

“Don’t cry,” she whispers.

“I don’t cry.”

I put a smile on my face and finally raise my eyes, running my hand through my hair. A cool sweat dampens my back, and I slide my hands into my jean shorts pockets, watching her eyes drop for a moment to my cleavage that disappears down my loose tank top.

My skin pricks.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

I’m so confused, I don’t know where to begin.

“Then, what’s good?” she teases.

A laugh escapes me, and I lean against the wall of the restaurant again, relaxing.

Coming in close, she touches my face with her free hand and my heart skips, closing my eyes and liking it more than I want to. I’m a little vulnerable right now, and I’m kind of tempted to forget that she’s an authority figure. Even if she is only a year or so older than me.

“So busy collecting stones.” She tsks. “You’re missing the diamonds.”

Tears well again, and I know she’s right. I have so many people who love me, and I’m whining.

“I just want to share joy with someone,” my breathing shakes as tears spill through my closed eyes. “I don’t want to be alone in everything I do. Fuck…”

School. Home. Work. The theater. There’s always opposition, and I’m rarely the one in control.