There’s a photo of Reid and Willa, each holding one of their five-year-old twins in their arms. Katarina was right about what she told me the first time Reid sent pictures of his kids: Reece and Maverick are the spitting image of Reid and me, except for their blue eyes, inherited from Willa.
My brother and I don’t talk much, not with words, but we communicate constantly through photos.
I flip the phone and capture an image of Katarina asleep with our daughter on her chest. I send it to Reid with a small provocation that reads: My life is better than yours.
He sends me a photo of his hand flipping the middle finger; then I get a screenshot of him kissing Willa on the mouth while she smiles, her face flushed with laughter.
His words read: I disagree.
Asshole.
I shake my head and deny i
