He suspected it probably had something to do with making his dad uncomfortable.
“Your father may not notice how tired your mum’s been getting, okay?” she said.
“So we’re going to have to work together to make sure he doesn’t overstay his welcome.”
She checked herself in the mirror again and lowered her voice. “Not that that’s been a problem.”
She turned, gave him a flash of starfish hand as a wave, and said, “Be good.” The door clattered shut behind her.
Conor was alone in her house. He went up to the guest room where he slept.
His grandma kept calling it his room, but he only ever called it the guest room,
which always made his grandmother shake her head and mumble to herself.
But what did she expect? It didn’t look like his room. It didn’t look like anybody’s room, certainly not a boy’s.
The walls were bare white except for three different prints of sailing ships,
which was probably as far as his grandma’s thinking went towards what boys might like.
The sheets and duvet covers were a bright, blinding white, too, and the only other piece of furniture
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