Finding Us (Interracial Romance)

Family Bonds & Pressing Reset

Jeremy

The rain falls in soft patters against the windows, a steady rhythm that makes the warmth of my parents' house feel even cozier. My family has gathered like we always do when Dylan and Renae bring their kids over. The room is full of voices, laughter, and the occasional burst of chaos, courtesy of my nieces and nephew.

I'm lounging on the couch, balancing a plate of Mom's famous lasagna on my knees. Dylan, my oldest brother, is sitting in Dad's recliner, his usual smirk playing on his face. His wife, Renae is next to him, keeping Montana—now fifteen and a half—from teasing her younger siblings too much. Delilah and Aimee, five-and-a-half-year-old twins, are sitting cross-legged on the floor, singing some nonsense song they probably made up. Dylan Jr., or DJ as everyone calls him, is building a tower out of Jenga blocks nearby.

My other siblings are scattered across the room. Amber's leaning against the window, sipping a glass of tea, while Thomas is in the corner, half-watching Ellie try to teach Bradley some ridiculous TikTok dance. Ellie, at eighteen, has way more energy than the rest of us combined, and Bradley—born in 2002—is doing his best to keep up.

It's noisy, messy, and perfect.

Mom, sitting in the armchair near the fireplace, looks up from the TV. "Jeremy," she says, her voice cutting through the din, "what are your plans for your birthday next week? Thirty-one is a big one!"

I shrug, trying to downplay it. "Probably just going out with Noah and Brock. Hit up a bar, grab some food."

Delilah gasps, her face lighting up. "You should have a movie night! We could watch Frozen or Encanto! Right, Aimee?"

"Yes!" Aimee agrees, clapping her hands. "And popcorn! Lots of popcorn!"

DJ scrunches his face in protest. "No, Uncle Jeremy should have a pizza party! With balloons! And a bouncy house!"

"A bouncy house for a thirty-one-year-old?" Amber snorts, raising an eyebrow at me. "Very dignified."

"It's better than karaoke night," I retort, earning a few chuckles.

Mom smiles at the kids' suggestions, but I catch her eye and I know she's got more on her mind than birthday plans. "Jeremy," she says, her voice softening. "Could I talk to you for a minute? In the kitchen?"

Uh-oh. That tone always means something serious. I set my plate down and follow her, the chatter fading as we step into the quieter space.

Mom turns to face me, her expression gentle but serious. "As you already know, I talked to Athena the other day."

The mention of my twin sister's name is enough to make my chest tighten. We haven't spoken in four years.

"What'd she say?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"She was outside while you and Dad were talking in the living room. She didn't want to come in, but we talked on the porch. She asked about you."

"Yeah? And what'd you tell her?"

"That you're doing well," Mom says, watching me closely. "She misses you, Jeremy. Deep down inside, she does miss you. She wants to fix things, but she doesn't know how to start."

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "That's rich, coming from her. Dad'll tell you I've tried, Mom. I've reached out. She's the one who keeps shutting the door."

"She's stubborn, just like you and your Uncle Bert from my side of the family," Mom says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "But she's hurting too. Maybe it's time to meet her halfway because four years is enough."

I look away, the weight of her words pressing on me. "I don't know, Mom. It's not that simple."

"I know. Just think about it, okay?"

I nod, but I don't make any promises.

We head back to the living room, where the TV is now on, tuned to E! News. Ellie has the remote and is flipping through channels when she stops on a trailer.

"A Netflix Original Limited Series," the narrator intones, the screen filling with dark, gritty imagery. The words "Joel Rifkin: The Killer You Didn't Know" appear in bold letters, followed by flashes of ominous scenes—shadowy streets, blood-stained clothing, terrified faces.

My stomach tightens as I realize what this is.

"What's this?" Amber asks, leaning forward.

"The Joel Rifkin thing," Thomas says. "You know, the serial killer from the '80s and '90s. Killed, like, seventeen women."

Before I can respond, the trailer cuts to an interview with Damien O'Brien, the show's creator—and a man I call a friend.

"I knew this story needed the right actor to bring it to life," Damien says, his expression serious. "Unfortunately, Jeremy Miller turned the role down. It was disappointing, especially since his career was built on dark, challenging roles. But I guess he's more interested in playing the boyfriend in music videos now."

The room goes silent. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, but I can't look away from the screen.

"What the heck?" Dylan mutters, breaking the silence.

"That's so unprofessional," Amber says, shaking her head. "Dragging you like that on TV?"

My hands clench into fists, anger bubbling in my chest. "Are you kidding me?" I explode, standing up. "After everything I did for that guy—for The Murder Diaries—he has the nerve to say that?"

"Jeremy," Dylan says, his tone cautious.

"No, seriously!" I pace the room, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "I gave him eight years of my life! Poured my heart and soul into that show! And this is how he thanks me? By trashing me because I didn't want to play another psychotic killer?" My voice rises with every word until I'm practically shouting. "What the—"

"Jeremy!" Mom's voice cuts through my rant like a whip and before I can even process what's happening, Dad's hand comes down on the back of my head with a loud smack.

The room freezes for half a second and then everyone bursts out laughing.

"Oh my gosh!" Ellie gasps, doubling over. "That was amazing!"

"Classic," Amber chokes out, wiping tears from her eyes.

I rub the back of my head, glaring at Dad. "What was that for?"

"You were about to curse God's name," Dad says, completely unfazed. "Not in this house, you're not."

Mom just shrugs. "You needed a reset."

I stare at them, incredulous, but their deadpan expressions are too much. I can't help it—I start laughing too.

"Well, thanks for the reality check," I mutter, sinking back onto the couch.

"You're welcome," Mom says with a smile.

Dylan clears his throat, bringing the focus back to the TV. "Look, Jer, you're better off not doing that series anyway. You remember how dark you got during The Murder Diaries. Damien has this... I don't know, this unsettling aura. He drags people down with him."

Thomas nods in agreement. "You don't need him, man. You've got plenty of other opportunities."

"Yeah," Amber says firmly. "Let him sulk. You've moved on to greater things."

I glance around the room, taking in their support. Damien's words still sting, but sitting here with my family, I realize they're right. I don't need him or his project to define me.

Delilah tugs on my sleeve, her face bright and innocent. "Uncle Jeremy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we have a princess party for your birthday? I can wear my Elsa dress and you can be Prince Hans!"

The room erupts into laughter again and for the first time that evening, I feel the weight on my chest start to lift. Maybe thirty-one won't be so bad after all.