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“No, don’t. It’s fine.”
“Tristan…”
“I’ll take the bus. No big deal.”
“The bus doesn’t go to Shelton’s.”
“It goes to Fourth and Dawson Street which is less than a mile away.”
I can’t take her pitying expression anymore and focus back on stacking the yogurts.
“We’ll try to get you a car soon,” she says. “Maybe later this week we can—”
She stops at my hard look.
“Oh, right. You’re not allowed to drive,” she says quietly.
“Never again,” I mumble, and she winces.
“I’m so sorry, Tristan. Really.”
“It’s fine.” I turn back to the shelf.
“It’s not. Maybe we can call—”
“Kim? It’sfine,” I repeat in a stern voice. I’m so sick of “maybes” that become embarrassing “hell no’s.”
She sighs. “That’s Iz’s favorite,” she says as I finish with the yogurts.
“I know.”
I slide the milk back onto the shelf and straighten, hoping to escape before things get worse. I can’t deal with my sister when I’m still reeling from the clash with Trey. Even a mile of walking wasn’t enough to sort through the storm he triggered. It’s not anger at him, though. I never gave a shit what he thought. It’s the fact that he’s right. That he confirmed what I’ve suspected over and over again while walking through Shelton’s earlier. The bank, the gas station, the ride share… You name it, I’ve been reminded how much I’m hated.
Nobody wants you here.
Kim shifts her weight, and I sense the coming inquisition. Crap.
“We never really talked about it, Tristan.”
“About what?”
“You know what. About what happened in there.”
“And what was that?”
I grab the sponge. Plenty of dishes to wash, counters to wipe down. Anything that doesn’t involve talking about shit I don’t want to talk about.
“Tristan.”
I turn on the faucet as high as it will go, but it’s still not loud enough.
“Please talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say when it’s clear running water won’t end this conversation.
“I think you should see someone.”
I glare at her before shaking my head and focusing back on the pot.
