I nod over and over, and the tears just keep rising. I blow out another breath, my strained shoulders loosening.

He wants to talk. He’s not going to kick me out. He’s not going to tell me to get lost, kid. I feel like I’m reaching out to someone who’s not only clasping my hand but drawing me closer, so I don’t fall backwards on my own.

For the first time since I left home, I feel safe.

I’m in the break room of Superheroes & Scones.

I can’t believe I’m here—and yes, I’m slightly shaking. My arms tremble, and my legs have glued together. I wonder if the jitters are from the coffee Loren handed me, the only thing I’ve consumed today. Or maybe it’s nerves—from being in the presence of a famous person for longer than one minute. Or from being related to this human being.

I cup the coffee mug, afraid to drink more and have a panic attack at Loren Hale’s feet. Please don’t do that, Willow.

He sits next to me on the bright blue couch. The break room is pretty typical: a microwave, small kitchenette, tables and chairs, a few racks of comic books, and a single bathroom.

Lily, her son, her bodyguard, and Ryke all disappeared upstairs to—well, I’m not exactly sure what leads upstairs. The point is: we’re basically alone except for a couple of employees eating sandwiches at a back table, sitting beneath an Iron Man poster.

I think we can speak freely enough, but if Loren is cautious, I’ll follow his lead and be cautious too.

“I…” I begin but realize I’m unsure of where to start.

Loren’s confidence radiates and practically dwarfs what little I have in this moment. He keeps an arm on the back of the couch, rotated towards my body. “How’d you find out about me?” he asks, discovering a place to start.

Now I have to figure out how to explain everything. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, having trouble holding his gaze. “My parents divorced about a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds a little cross, not towards me really, but maybe that’s his normal tone of voice? Everything seems to come out harsh, but it doesn’t always match his expression.

I guess if I looked at him, I’d have a better interpretation of this moment. Willow Moore, that little turd, can’t even look her own brother square in the eyes—will definitely be my eulogy.

I shrug and push up my glasses that keep slipping down my nose. “Ellie had her sixth birthday about a month ago, and it was the first time my parents were together since the divorce.”

The fight starts to flood me: the balloons littering the linoleum floor, the way my father passed me coldly and never looked back, the half-eaten cake and my mother gripping the counter. My chest tightens, and my eyes burn again.

“I heard them fighting in the kitchen,” I nearly whisper, “about how my mom had a son, and she…abandoned you.” I clutch my mug harder and finally look up.