“I'm sorry,” I whisper, sick to my core that he had to witness that. He blinks his large golden eyes. “What are you apologizing for?” “My mom, Chet, and…for what happened before.” I point between our two bodies, unable to look up at him. “That's a dangerous habit,” he rumbles. “What is?” “Apologizing for others. You don't control another adult's actions, and you clearly have disassociated yourself with them—so why should you be taking the responsibility of what they say or do?”
