Emotions aren’t really . . . my thing.
And brown nosing is something I do when I’m joking around.
Goofing off.
But if it's for Phillip Echevarria--
“Can I . . . speak to you, uh . . . ma’am?” I muttered, taking in the sharp gaze of the woman who gave birth to my favorite person. She was glaring openly at me and I held her burning gaze, unmoving. Weird, calling her ma’am like this. Strange, how distant I was from her now. But I’d spoken to my father—brainstormed really. He’d told me this was the best course of action.
Rigid, anxious—Phil looked like he might pass out as his mother’s eyes shifted to her son, searing him with . . . disappointment, I think. She’s disappointed in him.
That’s worse, somehow.
Worse than the explosive anger.
I’d rather
