From the picture, I could see he inherited dark hair, probably from his South American mother, along with tanned skin, but had Randy’s light eyes and fine features. I hadn’t ever met my stepbrother before and had only seen a picture of him that was taken a few years ago, shortly before Randy married my mother. Here’s what little I knew about Randy’s former life: his ex-wife, Pilar, was an Ecuadorian artist based in the San Francisco Bay area, and his son was a tattooed punk who, according to Randy, was allowed to do whatever he wanted. My stepfather and I got along well enough, but I wouldn’t say we were close. Randy and my mother, Sarah, had only been married a couple of years. He’d gone to Logan Airport to pick up his son, Elec, who would be living with us for the next year while his mother took a yearlong work-related assignment overseas. Any minute now, Randy’s Volvo station wagon would be pulling into the driveway. Stock photo © Ĭold air fogged the bay window in our living room as I nervously waited in front of it and struggled to see outside. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.Ĭover by RBA Designs. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced nor used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for use of brief quotations in a book review.
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