Dante
Eleni turns on her heel and marches up the stairs. My chest squeezes, and I race after her. What the f**k was Uncle John thinking? Even if she wasn’t here, even if she hadn’t overheard, he can’t just walk into my goddamn house and talk like I’m still the kid he had to drive to the hospital once because I threw a tennis ball at his garage door so hard that when it bounced back and hit me in the head, I got a concussion. I’ve been fine on my own for years.
She turns into her room, but she doesn’t close the door. A good sign, I think. I follow her in and close it behind me.
A weird feeling tightens my chest further. A couple weeks ago, this was one of many guest rooms. Now the sheets are rumpled, her books are on the desk, and her clothes are in the closet.
Before I can think too
