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Khaos’s watchful eyes aren’t helping. In fact, they’re intensifying everything right now, the way he’s taking in every word, every move, and then visibly analyzing it.

I’m feeling very judged by the two of them.

“I’m gonna go get that shower now,” I tell Guy. Hopefully it’ll wash off whatever this is.

Extending a fist to Khaos, he tells him, “She has some making up to do.”

My stepbrother just stares at it before glancing up at me and asking, “How long were you gone?”

“A few days.”

“Longer than that,” Guy argues.

This again? I don’t even…

I sigh.

“I’ve been here every night, Guy.” Cheer didn’t take up that much of my time.

“Didn’t feel like it,” he mutters.

“Sorry.” I shrug. I’m never going to give up cheer. It’s a part of me. “What do you want me to do?”

“Exactly what I told you to do. First, go upstairs—”

Khaos knocks his fist into Guy’s. “Don’t let me hold you up. My girl’s clingy, too.”

I don’t know which part of that statement bothers me more, him having a girlfriend or him inferring I’m clingy. How does any of this make me clingy?

Ignoring Khaos’s stare, I stomp past him.

I didn’t approve of our parents’ marriage. Who would? They only dated for a couple of months before walking down the aisle. But I do want to see my mom happy, which Graham seems to be doing a great job at. She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her.

I can’t help but wonder who thinks about what I want or what makes me happy? I don’t want to live with a complete stranger. Two technically. I don’t know Graham either, really. He’s been stuck to my mom’s side since they met and she’s away more than she’s here.

As soon as I’m done with my shower, I call her.

“Practicing your herkie?”

I roll my eyes. Typical. No hello, no checking to see if my flight was okay, nothing pleasant whatsoever.

“I just got home.”

“You should be doing them instead of calling me. Your herkies left a lot to be desired.”

My eyes stay on the ceiling as I hold back tears. This is why we call her Sarge. It’s never enough for her. I’m never enough for her.

While other kids would be congratulated, maybe even praised, after such a big accomplishment, I’m being critiqued.

“We won, Mom.”

“I know. I was there.”

For once. And only for the two minutes and fifteen seconds I was on stage, then she went right back to work. As the president of the biggest hotel chain in the world, my mom’s constantly traveling. Nights, weekends, holidays, she is always on the go, visiting the hundreds of different locations she’s responsible for. It wasn’t that big of an issue when my dad was in the picture. I missed my mom, of course, but my dad worked locally, so he was here for me. He was here, period. Then their marriage imploded, my dad moved to New Jersey to start a new family—a better family—and no one was here. Except me. I was fourteen, too young for my father to uproot and move to another state in the middle of the school year—at least that’s what I was told—but old enough for my mom to leave me home while she catered to her first true love—her own achievements.

“Why didn’t you tell me Graham’s son would be visiting?”

“I’m sorry, are you paying the bills? Any of them?”