08

porscha “I don't think this is a good idea,” I tell Nick, pulling my stacks of milk cartons out of the back of his car. “I feel like a freeloader. My boyfriend shows off that peculiar lip slant where you only see a part of his teeth. "And what are you going to do then?" He looks at me, pulling out my collapsible drawing table and lifting it up. "Are you staying with your parents?" I notice his blue eyes half-closed, probably from lack of sleep, as we walk up the porch steps of Aaron Browns' house to drop off our things. Our new home. The last few days have been crazy, and I can't believe this man is your father. What are the odds? I wish we had met a little differently. Not going to the police station at two in the morning to get her son – my boyfriend – out of jail. “Stop it, I told you,” Nick says, heading back to the car to get more stuff. “It was my father who offered us to stay here. We just have to do the housework, and that gives us a chance to save up for a new place. A better