Letting out a ragged sigh, I scrape a hand over my face and whisper, “He’s my stepbrother, Frankie…” “So?” She scoffs. “He’s not your actual brother.” I chew on my lip. “But I’m not… I mean, I didn’t think I was…” “But you are,” she breathes. Her tone is firm, and calming. Supportive. Like she’s stating a fact.
