I close the door behind him and turn to face him. “About what?”
“My dad.” He shakes his head and sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “He’s full of it. There’s nothing wrong with your hair, your face, or your clothing.”
I snort an awkward laugh, unsure how to admit that his dad’s comments did hurt. Instead, I say something I genuinely mean: “It’s not your fault how your dad acts.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine, and the intensity in his stunning butterscotch eyes hits me hard. I realize just how much I’ve missed looking into them during the few days he’s been missing in action. “It feels like my fault. You didn’t deserve that.”
I shrug, trying to brush it off. “I think he’s frustrated for yet again being unable to make contact with your sister.”
“Yeah. It’s frustrating.”
