“Fuck,” Otter says, and I don’t know how we’ve gotten to this point. He’s the levelheaded one that doesn’t say stupid shit that he doesn’t mean. Granted, I don’t have the monopoly on that, but it was cruel in a way that I’ve never heard from him, even if it was unintentional.

I turn back and glare at him.

He’s looking down at his feet, his socked feet because he doesn’t like being barefoot in the house. And they’re his ridiculous tube socks, and I’m angry at them for reasons I can’t quite explain, angry at everything about him.

We fight. We do. Everyone does. It happens. But we always fix it. And I have no doubt that we’ll fix this, but for the life of me, I can’t even think about how it’ll be all right. Because there is a little girl upstairs who heard something she shouldn’t have. And yes, she is strong and fierce and all the other things I didn’t expect but should have, but she is still a little girl, and sometimes, even though I know she doesn’t want us to know, she’s still insecure about her place here. Like she doesn’t quite believe that we want her as much as we do. Like she doesn’t think she has a home with us.

That’s Julie’s fault. I know it is. I’ve been fucked up a long time because of that woman, the gift that keeps on giving.

But maybe it’s also our fault, at least a little. Because as much as we’ve been trying to give her everything she needs, much of our time and attention has been focused on the twins. Maybe we haven’t been the best we could have with her. Maybe we should be doing more.

“That went well,” I tell Otter coolly. “Really. Good job.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know that—” Do you, Bear? it whispers. Do you really? “—but she doesn’t. For all she knows, you’re just like—”

“Don’t,” he snaps at me. “Don’t you compare me to her. I have never been like her.”

And because apparently things need to be made worse, I say, “You left once, Otter. Just like she did.”

He flinches like I’ve raised my hand to him, and that’s not something I’ve ever wanted to see. But that’s the hard thing about being angry with people you love: you know their heart well enough to be able to rip it still beating from their chests.

“Goddammit,” I mutter.

“It’s good to know you still think that,” he says woodenly. “That you still hold that over my head. Like I haven’t given up everything for you and Tyson.”