“Your hair’s getting long,” Vaughn said in a voice so quiet that for a second Lyle thought somebody might be coming down the hallway and his father didn’t want them to hear. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so—”
The hold that Lyle had on his patience snapped. “And what?” Lyle hissed. “Should I get it cut? Is it too long for you, Dad? Does it set a bad example? What? Tell me. Fill the void of my brain with your infinite wisdom, would you?”
Vaughn’s hand fell. The look in his eyes blanked into something unreadable, and his lips thinned into a line. “I was going to say it looked good on you.” He turned, shoulders tight and spine ramrod straight. “Get dressed. Mr. Connor’s making breakfast.”
The urge to say something—anything, really—and make his father turn back around was so powerful that
