9
Lance Whitmore
(Fifteen and a half years old)
Brooklyn and Wyatt’s Son
I walk out of my bedroom as my dad steps out of his and Mom’s. We freeze, our gazes soaking in what the other is wearing. We yell in unison.
“Brook!”
“Mom!”
She walks out of the bedroom, holding a necklace and handing it to my dad. He takes it, and she holds her hair up at the back. The two of them mastered this drill long before I was ever born.
She laughs. “Sorry, but Grandma Dori wants you guys to match.”
“One night,” Dad murmurs to me but rolls his eyes behind my mom’s back.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you just did.” Mom lets her hair fall.
Dad presses a kiss to Mom’s shoulder. It’s sick seeing my parents show affection all of the time.
“I just have to do one thing before we leave.” Mom lifts the he
