“I can’t.” I shake my head and push it away from me. I think about retreating to my room. It hurts, being around others when the one person I want to be with is irrevocably gone.

He takes a few bites but gives up when he sees I won’t touch it.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, trying to keep my mind off Jack.

“I still live here, at least until tomorrow,” Christian says, and attempts a friendly smile.

“No, I mean why aren’t you out with your girlfriend? It’s your last night.”

He grows quiet. “Vanessa and I broke up, actually.” It’s a surprising admission from him. We’re siblings, but we’re not friends. “I don’t really want to talk about it. Anyway, where is everybody?” he says, changing the subject.

“Mom’s probably at the hospital. No idea where Dad is, not that you care.” I don’t know why he’s talking to me. We don’t hang out. We barely acknowledge each other’s existence, but now he’s acting like we do this all the time.

“I do care,” he says quietly.

“Why? You’re leaving for Brown in ten hours. You never liked Dad in the first place. You said you didn’t care if he stayed or left because you had Mom.”

“What are you talking about?” His obliviousness angers me and I hold on to it like a life raft in this ocean of grief. He’s lucky he gets to even be oblivious because he has Mom in his corner. He never has to worry about how he’ll survive our mother like I have to.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say, my voice strained. “You have Mom. You never, ever have to worry like I do.”

“Come on, Mom’s not that bad,” he says.

“What?” I almost laugh. “You weren’t there all the times Mom yelled at me to be more like you.”

“Yeah? Well you weren’t there all the times I watched you and Dad go off to do your own thing. He never paid any attention to me after he got home from work. He never took me on cool trips to Chicago.”

“Dad only did that stuff with me because you were already Mom’s favorite. You’ve always been Mom’s favorite. I was basically the leftovers. We were leftovers. He didn’t pick me. Mom picked you and we were left to fend for ourselves.” I thought it’d feel good, finally getting these words out, yelling at Christian, but all I feel is emptiness.

“That’s not how I remember it. Dad’s always liked you more. He never spent any time playing with me. Or took me out, just the two of us. Or taught me how to ride a bike.”

“That’s because you never needed it! You were some kind of prodigy. You didn’t need anyone to teach you anything.” I can’t believe this. Christian, flagship child, complaining about how he was treated.

“Bull.”

“Mom says it all the time. All the time. ‘Remy, why aren’t you smart like Christian? Remy, why aren’t you more like Christian? Remy, why can’t you just be Christian?’ ”