He picked up his phone. Leo’s text still glowed. “Party at the point.”
The world, Rocco had decided, was not built for a boy who felt everything in capital letters. At seventeen, his bones ached with a fatigue that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the performance of being fine. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, one hand pressed flat against the jamb, watching his mother cry on the phone in the kitchen. She thought he couldn’t hear her. He heard everything. rocco-s pov 17
His phone buzzed. Leo. “Party at the point. Be there or be square, old man.” He picked up his phone