I rushed to my room to change and gathered my things. A minute later, I was behind Weston, hurrying him outside. Once we got into his truck, I sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t have done that. I didn’t want you to see my house.”

“Why not?”

“It’s filthy. It smells.”

“All I smelled was weed. Your mom is baked,” he said, amused. When he realized I wasn’t, he reached over for my forearm. “Hey. It’s a house, Erin. It’s not a big deal. I don’t care where you live.”

“It’s just humiliating,” I said, wiping a tear away. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

Weston pulled away from the curb, his jaw working under his skin. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Erin, I’m sorry. I thought it was nicer than picking you up from the DQ. I thought I’d introduce myself to your mom.”

“She’s not my mom,” I said staring out the window.

“Huh?”

“Her name is Gina.”

“Are you adopted?”

“No. But,” I looked over at him, “do you ever get the feeling that you belong somewhere else?”

“All the time,” he said, sounding exhausted.

“I’ve never felt like her daughter. Not even when I was little.”

“Maybe it’s because she’s the way she is? She doesn’t seem like the mom type.”

“She’s not.”

“Then it makes sense that you would feel that way.”

We weren’t driving out of town like we usually did. Instead, we were driving to the south side, where many of the doctors and attorneys lived. Weston’s parents built a huge house on a lot there when we were in middle school. He pulled into his driveway and under the arch that attached the house to one of the garages. The spot was enclosed by garage doors, the side of the house, and a gate to the backyard.

When he turned off the engine, I shook my head. “I’m not going in there.”

“Oh, quit it,” Weston said, pressing the garage door opener. Hopping down, he slammed his door and then jogged around to my side, opening my door with a wide grin. When I didn’t budge, his face fell. “Don’t be such a baby.”

I slowly climbed down and followed him into the garage and through a door. The house was dark, but a television was on somewhere. The dim blue light grew brighter as we approached the kitchen.

“Weston?” a woman called.

“I’m home, Mom!” he called back. He slipped my backpack off my shoulders and set it on the counter.

“Weston, what are you doing?” I said through my teeth, getting angrier by the second.

His mother walked into the kitchen, her highlighted hair and oval face accentuating her amazing green eyes. It was clear who Weston favored. She stopped, surprised to see me. I wanted to crawl under the counter.

“Who’s this?” she said, with fake cheerfulness in her voice.

“Erin Easter.” He looked at me. “This is my mom, Veronica.”

“Nice to meet you,” I choked out.