Mom and Dad were waiting for me when I got home, as I knew they would be. I had pissed them off.
“Tyson,” Dad said before I had even shut the front door all the way. I sighed, resting my forehead against the wooden door, prepping myself for whatever was to come. “Could you come here, son?”
Son. Whatever it was, it would be stern.
My parents were in the living room, a bottle of wine propped between them on the coffee table. It didn’t go unnoticed to me that it was the bottle of wine that Savanna had stolen from her father’s cabinet to bring over the one time we had her over for dinner.
“How was school today?” Dad asked.
“Fine,” I replied, sitting down on the chair across from them. Usually it was Mom who asked these questions, but she remained silent, the rim of her wineglass pressed a
