In the Name of Someone I No Longer Know

by Katie Grace Rion

The sky was flat gray when Tommy’s truck pulled off the highway, a light drizzle already threading down the windshield. Casey sat slouched in the passenger seat, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled halfway over his face, fingers hooked inside the kangaroo pocket like if he let go of himself, he might splinter apart. The ocean disappeared behind them miles ago, but he could still taste the brine on the back of his tongue, clinging to him like a warning.

Tommy kept one hand draped over the wheel, tapping out an uneven rhythm against the cracked leather. He looked older than Casey remembered, the beginnings of something weathered showing beneath his jaw. The heroin scars on his forearms climbed out from under his rolled sleeves, knotted lines and stripes Casey didn’t recognize. He hadn’t seen him in almost three years. The last time had been at Diesel’s funeral. Casey didn’t relish in thinking about that very much because it felt like everyone they knew was dying. But, unlike their brother, Tommy was alive, breathing, driving, pretending this wasn’t a terrible idea.

“You get taller or am I just shrinking?” Tommy said eventually, unsure if the joke would land.

Casey shrugged, eyes on the wet blur of pine trees outside. “Dunno.”

“That’s fine. Keep your secrets.”

Tommy didn’t push, didn’t ask about the surf shop or the house where Casey had been crashing with four other strangers who barely knew his last name. He hadn’t said much at all after picking him up, just handed him a coffee and tossed his duffel into the back seat like they were brothers meeting for a normal weekend, as if there wasn’t years of silence between them. By the time they pulled into the driveway, it was nearly dark. The house crouched at the edge of the woods, weather-beaten and slouching against the damp, dim porch light threw a cone of pale yellow onto the warped steps. It didn’t look like the type of place anyone actually wanted to live, but Tommy still parked the truck like it was a fortress. Inside, the warm air hung heavy with something cooking—garlic maybe, or onions left too long in the pan. Voices drifted from the kitchen, overlapping laughter and the scrape of chairs against tile.

“Alright,” Tommy said, throwing his keys into a chipped ceramic bowl by the door. “Before you freak out, there’s a lot of us right now. Margo’s here, obviously. Jason and Rory too. James—you remember James?—he’s home this month.”

Casey hesitated in the entryway, the damp hem of his sweatshirt sticking to his wrists. He didn’t know what he expected, but the chaos of voices beyond the hallway made him want to fold in on himself.

Tommy noticed. “Hey,” he said quietly, leaning closer, “they’re good people. Nobody’s gonna give you shit here.”

Casey nodded, even if he didn’t believe him. They stepped into the kitchen, where Margo stood barefoot at the counter, her long dark hair pulled into a loose braid. She was slicing tomatoes with the focus of someone who didn’t trust the knife. When she saw Casey, her whole face softened. “So this is the little brother,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Finally decided to show up, huh?”

Casey tried to smile but it felt crooked, uncomfortable. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Jason leaned against the counter with Rory perched on the stool beside him, her knees pulled up to her chest, balancing a sparkling water bottle on her thigh. Jason looked a lot like Tommy—same strong sharp jaw, same restless energy in the way he tapped his fingers against the counter, but softer somehow, less worn down. James was at the table, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone without looking up.

“Casey, right?” Rory asked, tipping the bottle toward him. “Tommy’s little brother from L.A.?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s nosey,” Jason said, tugging Rory’s sleeve.

“She’s curious,” Rory corrected, grinning without looking at him.

Tommy clapped Casey on the shoulder, steering him toward the table. “Eat first, unpack later.”

For a while, it was almost easy to pretend this was normal. The kitchen filled with hushed chatter, forks clinking against plates, the TV murmuring in the living room. Casey kept his head down and let the noise wash over him, chewing without tasting. The warmth felt temporary, fragile, like if he breathed wrong it would go away.

He was right.

Less than an hour later, the sound of tires grinding against gravel cut through the hum of voices. Tommy stiffened before the knock even came. “Stay here,” he muttered, already pushing back from the table.

Casey watched him disappear down the hallway, heard the front door open, and then…Ezra’s voice. Piercing, tight, carrying even through the walls. “You didn’t ask me, Tommy. You didn’t ask anyone.”

Casey’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t seen Ezra in months, not since Diesel’s funeral as well, and he hadn’t planned on seeing him now. He slipped from his chair and padded toward the hall, stopping just before the corner.

“I told you he couldn’t stay here,” Ezra was saying, his voice clipped, each word landing like a nail. “You’ve been clean for—what, three years? And suddenly you think you can handle this? A sixteen-year-old? Are you insane?”

“I called you,” Tommy shot back, his own voice rising, “because you’re supposed to be his fucking brother, too.”

“You called me after the fact,” Ezra snapped. “After you already decided.”

A long silence stretched between them, then Tommy, quieter, said, “He had nowhere else to go.”

Casey leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly, palms moist. He hated how they talked about him, like he wasn’t standing ten feet away, like he was just another responsibility to be shoved back and forth until someone dropped him.

Ezra sighed, harsh and frustrated. “You can’t fix him by pretending you’re fixed.

That landed like a gut punch. Casey heard Tommy exhale—quick, shaky—but he didn’t respond.

Ezra’s voice dropped to a low whisper, but the quiet somehow made it worse. “You think this is about you,” he said. “It’s not. It’s about him.”

Casey knew without looking that Ezra was pointing in his direction, maybe even stabbing the air with one of those clipped, impatient gestures he always used when he thought someone was being stupid.

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for him just because you’re playing rehab house,” Ezra went on. “You don’t get to—”

“Ezra.” Tommy’s voice cracked on his name. A warning, almost. “You’re in my house. Watch your tone.”

Silence spread out between them, thick and brittle as glass. The voices from the kitchen had quieted too. Casey knew everyone had gone still, forks halfway to mouths, ears tilted toward the hallway. Ezra broke it first, stepping forward hard enough that the floorboards creaked. “I warned you,” he said. “I told you years ago. Don’t drag him into your chaos, Tommy.”

“I didn’t drag him anywhere,” Tommy snapped. “He called me.”

Ezra hesitated. That pause, brief, but real, told Casey he hadn’t known that part.

“He called me,” Tommy repeated, slower this time, like grinding out the words would make them heavier. “He didn’t want to be there anymore. So I said yes.”

Ezra’s voice softened, but only barely. “So you think you’re ready to raise a kid? You, of all people?”

Casey hated that phrasing—raise a kid—like he was some lost dog Tommy decided to bring in off the street. He shifted his weight against the wall, the old wood cool against the back of his sweatshirt, wishing he could shrink small enough to vanish between the seams. Tommy, meanwhile, went still in that dangerous way Casey remembered from before the funeral with his shoulders squared, jaw tight, fists pressed into his pockets. “I’m not raising him,” he said, each syllable precise. “I’m giving him a place to breathe.”

Something in his voice must’ve hit Ezra wrong, because the next second, Ezra pushed past him, stepping into the entryway where Casey stood frozen. Casey flinched when Ezra’s eyes landed on him—dark blue, the exact shade of the L.A. fog that used to hang over the freeways. Ezra looked older too, but not the way Tommy did. Tommy’s age showed in scars and creases; Ezra’s showed in exhaustion, as if his life had been ground down into rules and strict expectations.

“Casey.” His voice gentled automatically, as if he could flip a switch and become the protective older brother again. “Pack your stuff, alright? You’re coming with me.”

Casey blinked. “What?”

“You can’t stay here,” Ezra said firmly, as if it was already decided. “You know that.”

“No,” Tommy cut in, stepping up behind Ezra. “No, he doesn’t know that, because it’s not true.”

Ezra turned, eyes narrowing. “Tommy—”

“Don’t ‘Tommy’ me,” he snapped, heat finally spilling into his voice. “You don’t get to show up after two years and play big brother when you haven’t called him once.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth.”

Ezra’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been protecting him.”

“From what? Me?”

“Yes, exactly. From you.”

The air between them pulled taut, almost to the breaking point. Casey swallowed against the pressure in his throat, staring down at the floorboards. His chest ached with something messy and wordless. Behind him, a chair scraped across tile and Margo stepped into the hall, arms folded over her chest, her braid falling forward over one shoulder. “Enough,” she said quietly, but her voice cut through everything. “Both of you.”

Neither brother moved.

Jason appeared next, Rory hovering behind him, both of them silent for once. Jason’s expression was unreadable, but Casey could feel the tension rolling off him, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, ready to step in if someone shoved first. Finally, Ezra let out a deep, frustrated breath and stepped back, dragging his hands over his face. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered.

“Good,” Tommy said. “Then don’t try.”

The silence that followed was ugly and uneven, filled only by the faint ticking of the kitchen clock. Ezra dropped his hands and looked straight at Casey. “This isn’t safe for you,” he said. “You know that, right? He’s not—”

“Stop,” Casey said before he could help it. His voice came out rough, unsteady. “I’m not a little kid.”

Ezra blinked, startled.

“I called him,” Casey said, forcing the words out before his throat closed up. “I asked to come here. I don’t want to go back.”

Ezra opened his mouth, then shut it again. For the first time all night, Tommy didn’t look angry. Just tired.

The fight dissolved after that, not because anything resolved, but because the words no longer had anywhere to go. Ezra muttered something about checking in later and left without another glance at Tommy. He slammed the front door, rattling the pictures on the wall. Casey stayed leaning against the wall in the hallway, his palms still moist, his stomach hollow.

That night, after the house sank into the deep dark of the Maine woods, Casey lay awake on the narrow bed Tommy had cleared for him, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of salt and wood, and beneath it, something stronger maybe—cigarette smoke buried deep in the walls, impossible to scrub out. He could still hear the muffled sounds of the ocean somewhere far off, distant enough to feel imaginary.

His phone buzzed once against the nightstand. A number he didn’t recognize. When he opened the message, his chest tightened instantly.

Casey. It’s Vee. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I’m in AA now. Step Nine. I need to make amends.

Casey stared at the screen till the words blurred and his pulse hammered in his throat. He didn’t reply, but nor did he sleep that night. He stayed on his back until his neck ached, phone screen dimmed but still in his hand, thumb hovering over Vee’s message like if he stared long enough, the words might change into something else. Something safer.

Step Nine. Make amends.

He didn’t know what she wanted from him, or worse, what she expected him to give.

By the time morning’s gray bleed crawled through the blinds, his head felt packed with static, the kind that hummed, impossible to shut out. Somewhere down the hall, he heard the floor creak and the faint clatter of pans in the kitchen. Tommy, probably. He always moved like he was trying not to be heard, but everything about him made noise. Casey shoved his phone under the pillow and dragged himself up. The boards chilled the bottom of his feet as he crossed to the doorway, leaning on the bed frame as if holding himself up was a choice he had to make. Tommy was at the stove, barefoot, a cigarette burning in the dish beside him, stirring something in a dented saucepan. There was coffee dripping into a carafe, the sound breaking up the quiet room.

“You didn’t sleep,” Tommy said without turning.

Casey blinked. “Neither did you.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, almost a smile but not really. “Touché.” He slid a chipped mug across the counter without asking if Casey wanted coffee. “Ezra’s coming back later.”

Casey froze, mug halfway lifted. “Why?”

“Because that’s who he is,” Tommy said simply. “He thinks checking in is the same as caring.”

The words came out bitter, almost reflexive, but something softer simmered just beneath them, something Tommy didn’t want to name. Casey sipped the coffee and tried not to wince when it burned his tongue. Tommy watched him for a beat, then leaned back against the counter. “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. Or to her.”

It took Casey a second to realize he meant Vee. “How’d you—”

“You keep your phone on silent, but you sleep with your thumb on the screen,” Tommy said quietly, nodding toward his pocket. “I’ve been you before.”

Casey hated that he understood what that meant. He stared down into his mug and pretended the steam stung his eyes.

Ezra showed up before noon. Casey was on the back porch when he heard the truck crunch over gravel, sunlight slanting hard through the pines. He stayed where he was, knees drawn up, picking splinters from the railing. The door banged open inside, voices rising immediately. This time, Tommy didn’t wait for Ezra to start. “You can’t just show up anytime you feel like it,” Tommy snapped from the kitchen.

“And you can’t make decisions like this alone,” Ezra shot back.

Casey let their voices roll through him like the surf, hitting and retreating. He focused on the humidity, the pungent green smell of moss clinging to the boards.

Rory slid open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, barefoot, balancing a mug in one hand. Her hair was still wet from a shower, curling against her collarbone. She dropped into the chair beside him without asking. “They’re gonna kill each other eventually,” she said casually, sipping her coffee.

Casey didn’t answer.

“You get used to it,” she added, tilting her mug toward the sound of muffled shouting inside. “Actually, that’s not true.”

Casey glanced sideways at her. “Why are they like this?”

Rory laughed softly, not unkind. “Because they’re the same person and they hate each other for it.”

That landed somewhere deep, though Casey didn’t want it to. He stared at the tree line, wishing he could dissolve into it, disappear between the branches.

By late afternoon, the flaming argument had burned itself down to embers, just hot enough to sting if you stepped too close. Tommy retreated to the shed behind the house—his version of cooling off—while Ezra lingered in the kitchen, talking with Margo. Casey sat on the stairs, phone in hand, thumb still hovering over Vee’s message. He almost typed something once—What do you want from me?—but the words made his stomach knot so badly he deleted them before he finished. Ezra came over eventually, dropping onto the step below him without asking. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the worn floorboards.

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” Ezra said finally, voice soft.

Casey shrugged without looking at him.

“I know you think I’m the enemy,” Ezra added. “I’m not. I just…” He trailed off, rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

Casey’s breath caught, piercing and unexpected. Ezra didn’t notice, or pretended not to. After a long beat, Ezra pushed himself up and left, leaving Casey alone with the silence—and the message he still hadn’t answered.

That night, Casey dreamed of Laurence for the first time in months. He woke with his throat raw and his chest aching, fragments of his cousin’s cruel laugh still tangled in his head. He didn’t remember the details, just the feeling of being back there, all of them together, before the hospital, before Diesel’s funeral, before Vee burned the bridge completely. When he reached for his phone, the screen was black, Vee’s message waiting at the top of the thread like a hand extended into the dark.

Laurence was dead. That much Casey couldn’t ignore, though he’d tried to, burying himself in the quiet of the house, in everyone else’s chaos. It happened months ago—sudden, a death that left questions hanging like smoke. No one had been there. No one stopped it. And Vee…Vee had disappeared into bottles, into late nights filled with regret she couldn’t untangle. The calls started shortly after, timid at first, then desperate. She wanted to talk about Laurence, to make sense of what happened, to make amends for all the ways she’d failed, not just him, but Casey, too. Casey knew what that meant. It wasn’t just grief. Her guilt twisted her into someone he barely recognized. Someone whose persistence felt like a weight pressing on his chest. And yet, in the quiet moments, Casey felt the tug of something else. A longing for closure, for understanding, for a chance to say what had been unsaid for years. But that day hadn’t come yet. Not today. Not anytime soon.

Casey lay awake long after the house fell silent. The pullout mattress groaned beneath him every time he shifted, the blankets twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. He’d been staring at the ceiling for so long that the shadows seemed to shift and crawl. The phone buzzed again on the side table, vibrating softly against the wood.

VEE.

For the third time that night, he didn’t move. Didn’t even look at it. Just turned his face into the pillow and waited for the ringing to die out. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked. Quiet footsteps padded over the warped floorboards. Tommy appeared in the doorway, his silhouette recognizable in the kitchen light. He leaned on the frame and folded his arms. “You’re not gonna answer her,” he said. Not a question.

Casey shook his head, his voice rough. “Don’t want to.”

Tommy stepped into the room, lowering himself onto the edge of the couch. The springs complained under his weight. He smelled of cigarette smoke and cold air. “She’s not gonna stop calling.”

“Yeah,” Casey muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around him. “I know.”

Tommy rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor for a long beat. “You don’t have to pick up. You don’t owe her anything, Case. Not after what she let happen in that house.”

Casey swallowed hard, throat tight. “She says she wants to talk about Laurence. Like it’s supposed to fix something.”

Tommy went still, watching Casey carefully but saying nothing. Casey sat up, shoving the blanket off his shoulders. He kept his eyes fixed on his hands, fingers knotted together so tightly his knuckles ached. “You know what he was like.”

“Yeah,” Tommy murmured. “I know.”

But the words weren’t enough. They weren’t close. Casey’s chest hurt with how much he’d kept in. The silence stretched until it cracked. “I lived there for three years, Tommy,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Three years in that house, and he hated me from day one. It wasn’t just fights. It was—” He broke off, jaw locking, forcing himself to breathe before continuing. “He’d wait until Aunt Vee wasn’t around, and then he’d…he’d make it hell. Hide my stuff. Lock me out of my room. Rip up my homework so I’d get in trouble.”

Tommy’s jaw was tight, his fists curling against his knees, but he let Casey keep going.

“One time,” Casey said, his voice shaking now, “he locked me in the shed out back. Middle of summer. No water. Hours, Tommy. I missed dinner, I missed everything. When Aunt Vee finally found out, she said I must’ve done something to deserve it.”

Tommy muttered a curse under his breath. Casey laughed once, bitter and hollow. “That’s who she wants me to forgive. That’s what making amends means to her.”

Tommy turned to him then, resting one hand on Casey’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “Case, listen to me. You don’t have to forgive either of them. You don’t have to open the door just because she’s knocking.”

Casey tried to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The refrigerator hummed somewhere down the hall. A distant truck passed on the highway.

Finally, Tommy leaned back, resting against the arm of the couch. “You survived her house. You survived him. That’s yours, Case. Nobody gets to take that from you. Not even her.”

Casey blinked hard against the sting in his eyes, swiping at his face with the heel of his hand. “I don’t feel okay,” he admitted, the words scraping out of him, something old and rusted finally breaking loose.

Tommy nodded, as if he’d been waiting for him to say it. “I know. But you’re here now. You’re safe here.”

Casey sat there, staring at the floor, until his breathing evened out again. The weight of it hadn’t disappeared, but it felt…shared now. When Tommy finally stood, he paused at the doorway, hand braced on the frame. “Let it ring,” he said gently. “If she wants something from you, she can wait until you’re ready.”

Casey didn’t answer, and when the phone buzzed again minutes later, he didn’t reach for it. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he had to.

About the Author

Katie Grace Rion is a junior at Northwestern State University of Louisiana studying English and Creative Writing, originally from Lake Charles. Her work has previously appeared in The Quatrain. On top of literary fiction, she has a deep appreciation for horror and, most importantly, cats. You can find her on Instagram – @katie.grace04.