But now Baba doesn’t really talk to us about anything that isn’t our impending futures.

I don’t look up at my dad when he sits down, too used to tuning him out, until he pointedly clears his throat.

I painstakingly look away from my MacBook. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now. If I don’t keep focused, my brain is going to start replaying my latest encounter with Emmitt on a constant loop. It seems every single time I talk to him, I somehow make a fool of myself. “What?”

Baba looks less put together than usual. He’s wearing a ratty band shirt, stained green from mowing the front lawn, and pajama pants with a hole in the knee. An apron hangs on the back of his chair.

“What is it with you?” my dad asks, shaking his head. “You’re turning eighteen in a month and you continue to act like a child. We can hardly have a conversation with you these days.”

I raise an eyebrow. Does he want me to make a list of references for why I have no desire to speak to either of my parents anymore? Because I could easily put one together, citations and all.

It starts with you think I’m too incompetent to take care of myself and ends with you’re incredibly dismissive of my passions.

“What do you want?” I ask, tapping my fingers against the tabletop. Anam looks up at the motion and starts at the sight of our father, pulling out her headphones quickly and pretending to be invested in her AP Physics textbook.

“What I want is to speak to you like a normal human being,” he says, looking between us with furrowed brows. Anam nudges my foot beneath the table and I nudge her back. “Your behavior is stressing out your mother. You know she has bad migraines.”

I level him with a glacial stare. The guilt-tripping isn’t going to work on me. I hate when they try to manipulate me into feeling bad for them, only to scream at me the next day. I used to fall for it, but I’m past that now. “Then I’m sure she’ll be happy to have me out of the house in a few months.”

My father sighs, scratching his beard. “God, Poppy. You’re being ridiculous. We want you to be close by because we love you, not because we don’t trust you.”

“Whatever,” I say, turning my attention back to my laptop. I’m not in the mood to have the same argument for the fiftieth time.

“Anam?” Baba asks, looking to her for guidance. I press my lips together to keep from snorting. I might dislike my parents, but my sister hates them.