Kamaria
I’m sitting just off of Summer’s kitchen on one of the bar stools that usually sit alongside the island. When Brendon and I came back from talking to the rogue yesterday, Stephen was taking down the last of their bags back to their house. I have a barber cape draped over me while Summer sets up her clippers on the island behind her. We haven’t been talking much since my confession about rejecting Brendon. It’s tension that will iron itself out with time. I would usually wait it out, but the shaved side of my head is growing out and I desperately need a fresh cut. I reason that we can avoid any conversation having to do with rejection and mates.
“Did Brendon tell you about the rogue situation?” Summer asks after a few awkward moments of silence. There’s concentration in her voice
