"Renee!” Michael’s voice booms through the kitchen, snapping me back to reality. I jump and start taking slow, steady steps backward.
I look at him, trying to hide the shock on my face. He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head.
“What did you do?” I ask, my throat dry and my voice barely above a whisper.
“Can you believe these racist assholes?”
“What?” I ask, confused by his words.
“They intentionally delayed your meal because—get this—you’re a different shade from them, and they don’t serve people who look like you. Racist bastards.”
The words hang in the air, and a chill runs down my spine. For a moment, I can’t even process how I feel. Racist? I hadn’t even considered that, but now the tension in the kitchen feels even more suffocating.
Being treated differently because o
