I come in?” he asked.
His usual confidence was gone.
“Depends,” I said. “Are you here to drag me back to Mom’s table or to actually listen for once?”
He exhaled, shoulders sinking.
“I left,” he admitted. “She spent the whole dinner yelling about you, about how you ruined everything. She didn’t apologize, not once. I kept waiting. She just kept saying how embarrassed she was.”
“Embarrassed,” I repeated. “Not sorry.”
He nodded miserably.
“There’s a difference,” I said.
He looked at me then.
Really looked.
Like he was seeing
