"Jesus, Daisy," I say, grabbing coffee. "You look like someone sucked your soul out in your sleep."
She doesn’t even flinch. "Says the guy who stumbled in at 2AM. smelling like cotton candy, smoke, andGio."
I freeze mid-pour. Oh she didn’t.
My father looks up from his newspaper.
Daisy. Daisy, babe. Sister of my blood. Why would you.
I shoot her a stare that practically screams WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO. She has the audacity to whisper "Sorry."
Sorry.
What am I supposed to do with "sorry"? Use it to shield my body from death? The temperature drops ten degrees. Silence.
"Were you with that punk?"
I don’t flinch. I swirl my coffee lazily.
How the hell do I explain this? Do I say, "Yes, father. My girlfriend abandoned me, and your favorite disappointment of aneighbor found me in pieces and dragged those pieces into a carnival full of fried food, cheap alcohol, and rides that tried to kill me." No. Can’t say that.
"He just happened to be there," I say flatly. "It’s not like we planned it."
He sets the paper down, every movement precise. "Do you haveanyidea how dangerous that boy is?"
I sip my coffee. Too hot. Burns my tongue. "Yeah," I say. "I know."
"And you still think it wise to keep his company?"
"I don’t plan on being his friend," I say. "So I’m not too concerned."
It’s not a lie. Just not the full truth.
My father leans back. "That boy is reckless. Arrogant."
He’s actually mad now. "He used to do lines off stripper’s thighs! Probably still does! He got arrested twice last month and came out smiling. Don’t you see the problem? An immature street-rat."
He looks like he’s about to make it worse. "He used to run packages for a dealer. Said he ‘never looked inside,’ but come on. Of course he knew. What if he drags you into trouble too? What are you going to do then?"
I hear it all.
Illegal racing. Noise complaints. Property damage. He keeps going. And going. And going.
All I can think is: yeah. That sounds like Gio.
I don’t interrupt. I let him talk. Because honestly? I don’t even know why he’s telling me any of this.
Yes, it’s concerning. Yes, Gio is a walking red flag factory.
But why does he think I care?
He’s not my problem.
"I’ve heard one too," Daisy says.
"Someone I know, who hooked up with someone who knows Gio, says he has this one tattoo…"
My hand freezes on my mug.
