Page 69 of No One Aboard

Nico put his elbows on the counter. “Art’s a good way to do that, so I’ve been told.”

Rylan glanced at him. “You an artist?”

“Nohoho.” Nico put his chin in his palm. “Definitely not. My uncle is, though, with his food. When his grandmother died, he left the rest of the family behind and went anywhere he could to distract himself. To sea. Culinary school.”

Rylan didn’t know what it was like to have a grandparent. “Her death upset him that much?”

Nico picked up one of Rylan’s pencils and twirled it between his thumb and middle finger. “She raised him and my mom. It was like losing a parent. My mom told me she was the only person he was ever emotional with. She was the only one who didn’t need him to be strong.”

Rylan realized he didn’t know a thing about Alejandro’s childhood, other than he was raised in the same apartment building as Francis. He certainly hadn’t given thought to the people in Alejandro’s life who he might or might not have lost.

“Why did everyone need him to be strong?”

Nico balanced the pencil on his knuckles. “Machismo. People think that rich families care more about image than poor ones. I think it’s the opposite. When you’re poor, all you got is pride.”

Rylan wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Nico leaned forward to peek at Rylan’s sketchbook, which he hid to his chest.

“What?” Nico asked playfully. “Don’t tell me you’re terrible.”

“I’m not. I just...” There it was. That sickening feeling he’d gotten when MJ had forced an explanation out of him. Rylan wouldn’t let that happen again.

“I’m not terrible. I just have to work alone.”

Nico looked pensive, and Rylan was certain he would press him like MJ had, but instead he shrugged his shoulders and scooped up his clipboard.

“Fair ’nough. I’ll leave you to it.”

Rylan waited until the watertight door had been closed before he lowered the sketchbook and stared at the half-finished drawing in his lap.

He touched the shaded beginnings of his sister’s dormitory window as he let himself remember.

Rylan had been drawing for days since Tia left. He would call her nightly, and they’d stay on the phone while he drew, asking her to describe every inch of her new school. Her new life. Sketching her dorm had been tricky—it was hardly Rylan’s specialty—and Tia must have fallen asleep on the other end of the phone. His sister’s deep breathing became the ambience to his art.

Then the knock at his door. Two sharp taps, which meant it was Francis. Rylan had dropped his pencil, hung up the phone.

The sketchbook was still open when his father strode inside, and he glimpsed it before Rylan could get it closed.

“You really miss her, huh?”

Francis sat on Rylan’s bed. Gestured for him to join him. So he had.

“I miss her too,” Francis went on. “Despite it all. House is going to be quiet this year.”

Year.It was insurmountable. How was Rylan supposed to live a year without his best friend? The floor tilted, and Rylan’s hands gathered to fists.

“You sent her away,” he said, and in that second he really thought he could hit his own dad. “You think this will fix anything? You think it’ll make her love you again? You’re ruining everything!”

Francis crossed his ankles. “Are you done?”

“Not really.” Rylan shot to his feet. He was scared. He always felt scared. But then he’d felt anger too, and it was rich and cataclysmic with a current strong enough to burst a dam. “Do you even realize how much damage you’ve done? She’s my twin. We’re supposed to do life together. You’re so careless and... and cruel! The least you could have done is disowned me too.”

Francis glanced at his Rolex, then back at his son. “I have no intention of disowning my daughter.”

“But you—”

He raised a hand. “It is no longer your turn to speak. I do realize what I’ve done, and I know it is hurting you. I’m sorry for that.”