Molly’s dark hair swings as she turns to me. “You’re way taller than I thought.” I don’t reply. What would I even say anyway? Thanks, kid, I got my height from my dead bio-dad? Or do I try some bonding by saying, I heard yours was a dick and left you at home for three days while your addict mother lay dead on the bathroom floor. Want to bond over trauma? I can partially relate. Instead, I stay silent. Olivia would most likely kick my balls, and I quite like my balls.
