I don’t offer him a response, my cheeks burning with unjustified shame. It’s a guilt trip. I know it’s a guilt trip. It doesn’t make it any easier. I hate that they try to make me feel bad for being unwilling to put up with their constant derision.

Baba grumbles, before saying, “Don’t be home too late.”

The call drops, and I switch back to the Google Maps app, my jaw tense as I force myself to take a deep breath. Emmitt’s look has shifted from intrigued to concerned.

“You dislike them,” he says, startling me.

I blink up at him, looking away from the map on my phone. “Uh...who?”

Emmitt bites his lip, considering me. “Your parents. What did they do? I know you said you don’t get along, but this is more than that, isn’t it?”

The air is suddenly too thick. It feels like it’s pressing all around me, suffocating me.

I pull on my braid, forcing myself to snap out of it, and only falter when pain blooms in my skull. I immediately let go, grimacing at how red my palm is. “What haven’t they done is probably a better question.”

Emmitt keeps staring at me, waiting for me to answer. His eyes are so genuine that my treacherous walls fall down inch by inch, making space for him to climb over.

“They think so little of me,” I say in a small voice. “They think I’m incapable of succeeding. It’s like they want me under their thumb for the rest of my life. Every time I do something my own way, they look at me like they’re ashamed of me. Like I’m constantly disappointing them by being my own person.”

He frowns, brushing a hand against my cheek. I immediately scrub my face for tears, but there are none. I look back at Emmitt and realize he reached out as a means of comfort.

I swallow loudly and look away from his heavy gaze. “They’re just really controlling. They want me to live my life a certain way, because it’s what society expects of me. But what about what I want? What about my dreams? They matter, too.” I clench my fingers around my phone. “When I told them I wanted to go to USC, they laughed at me. My mom said me getting accepted was as unlikely as me winning the Golden Ivy competition.”

“Jesus,” Emmitt mutters. “Have they always been like this?”

“It feels like that sometimes,” I say, and I can’t help the way my throat aches as memories of the past flood my brain. “But no, not always. They used to be better before.”

“What changed?” Emmitt asks quietly as we reach the stairs that lead up to High Bridge, the spot I chose, and start climbing them steadily.