They’re both quiet, even though there’s plenty they can say. They can ask me about my flight. How I’m settling in. Even thank me for getting out of their house. But they look away as if their movie has resumed playing. I don’t necessarily want to see them later if all they’re going to do is repeat the same behavior that made me uncomfortable in the very house I grew up in. I’m about to ask Scarlett to return to her room with the laptop so we can spend this valuable time talking instead, but I’m not going to be driven away again. I’m going to live a first—the first time I talk openly about my
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