“I’m just saying, brother,” Bray starts, twirling his fork in his tuna, “you should be nicer to her. We aren’t as different as you think.” “What does that mean?” I roll my eyes, nursing the scotch. “You saw the way her mother was with her.” He raises his eyebrow at me pointedly. “Remind you of anyone? She drinks, does drugs, and races cars to forget, to feel and be out of the house.
