MICHAEL
Quinn left all too soon, but it was probably for the best with how my mom was acting. I stayed shut up in my room the rest of the night, enjoying the lingering smell of Quinn on my sheets and wishing we hadn’t been interrupted.
The following day, my mom was quiet at breakfast. I tried to eat quickly because I thought it was finally time I showed up to band practice. School would be starting soon, and I couldn’t use family as an excuse forever.
Before I could escape the packhouse, my mom grabbed me. “I have it,” she said.
“Have what?” I said. My voice was dripping with contempt, but I wasn’t in the mood to be respectful of her. The longer I sat knowing that Lawrence was not my father, the angrier I got.
“What you wanted, Michael,” she said. She handed me a folder, and I loo
