Darrell
I heard her footsteps in the hallway and opened the door before she could even knock or use her keycard. Gina stood there in her usual jeans and oversized sweater, looking tired but determined, like she’d rehearsed whatever she came to say on the drive over.
“Hey,” I said, stepping aside.
She slipped past me without much of a hello, kicked off her sneakers by the door, and dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh, legs tucked under her like she owned the place.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a second, arms crossed. “Well, you called. Said you wanted to talk about whatever. So… what do you want to talk about?”
She looked up at me, eyes steady. “So when are we going to tell my parents about us?”
I laughed—short, disbelieving, then scoffed. “Are you asking me that?
