Shylah
The next morning, Khalil was in full boycott mode. He barely touched his breakfast, his pout as dramatic as ever.
“Khalil, honey, I’m sure you and Quinn will still have fun,” I said, sipping my coffee.
He scowled at his plate. “It’s not the same. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
I forced myself not to laugh at how tragic he was acting. “Okay, shoes on, time to drop you off.”
The car ride was silent. My smile only made him more frustrated.
When we pulled up to the packhouse, Khalil groaned. “Mom, I don’t know why you’re smiling. Look at Quinn. He looks defeated. Is this what you wanted?”
I turned my head, and sure enough, Quinn was walking toward us, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his face pulled into a deep frown.
I almost felt bad.
Almost.
“Stop sulking an
