I giggle, and Bryce looks up from his phone as if he can sense my dad talking about him. Dad isn’t one of those fathers who thinks his daughter isn’t dating until she’s forty-three or that I’m completely void of hormones. But Bryce, with his flashy cars and show-stealing (and casually racist) dad, isn’t really someone my dad, who values things like a smartly organized toolbox and almost any Nicolas Cage film, especially National Treasure, has patience for.
done with this hoe
