Page 49 of I Don't Need Your Romance

She shoots me a glare. “Damian Harrington.”

“It’s Lawrence.”

She shuts her eyes, releasing a heavy breath.

“Maybe you want to forget Dad ever existed, but I don’t,” I whisper so the other people heading to the doors don’t overhear us.

Her eyes open. “Is that what you truly believe?” She shifts her gaze to something in the distance and a bright smile flashes across her face. “Eloise!” She and a woman bend to plant air-kisses on each other’s cheeks. “It’s so good to see you.”

The women break apart and Eloise, who’s around my mom’s age, takes me in. “No. Is this little Damian? I heard you’re living with your mom. And attending her school. Are you having a good time?”

From the corner of my eyes, I see Mom giving me a don’t-you-dare-make-me-look-bad glare. Truth is, I don’t want to make her look bad—at least not on purpose. I only react to the way I’m treated, so if her fancy people treat me like I’m their equal, I’ll show them the same courtesy.

I force a smile. “Yes, the school is great and I’m acclimating well. I actually feel so at home there.”

She nods, pleased with my answer. I can feel my mom heaving a sigh of relief. But then Eloise notices the leather jacket and her lips press together. Mom’s eyes follow hers before she lets out a laugh. “You know how children are. They find their own ways to express themselves.”

I internally scoff at how desperate my mom is to justify my choices. It’s ridiculous.

Eloise nods again. “Of course! You don’t want to hear about the phases my little princess is going through right now. Adorable.”

Mom laughs. “Children are a blessing.”

I want to glare at her. I certainly didnotand still don’t feel like a blessing to her. More like an inconvenience.

As we enter the building, more people gather around Mom, chatting to her about all these different things. And of course they mention my grandmother and all the good she did in the world. Mom’s face shines. I don’t normally see her this happy. She’s usually frowning at me or worried about the school. But this is where she belongs. It’s her life. And that’s fine. It doesn’t mean it needs to be my life, too.

When she has a free second, Mom turns to me. “Why don’t you mingle with the other kids? You remember most of them from your childhood, don’t you?” She says it loudly, like she wants everyone to know I’m not some antisocial delinquent.

I do know most of the kids. Some are from Harrington Bay Academy as well. These are the kids who crapped on my dad for not being “wealthy enough.” The kids I got into a few fights with while trying to defend him.

“Go on,” Mom stresses under her breath.

They’re the last people I want to be around, but I can’t stand being with Mom and her friends a second longer.

I’m tempted to leave, but she’s watching me with an expression that once again warns me not to embarrass her.

My legs take me to the group of kids my age, who are laughing and chatting. When they see me come near them, a few turn up their noses. Some from school ignore me.

I stand there with my hands in my pockets. Mom said I should go here, but she didn’t say I have to interact with them.

One girl two years older than me, who I went to elementary school with and who is now in college, gives me a look like I’m something filthy that shouldn’t be near them. “What brings you here, Lawrence?” She purposely used my dad’s last name to show everyone how inferior she thinks I am.

The rest laugh, the guy whose arm is around her the loudest. He looks around college age, too. Must be her boyfriend.

“Heard your poor daddy died,” another girl says with a fake sad expression on her face. “Couldn’t afford medical care without bumming off Beatrice’s money?”

I glare at her. “Don’t you dare talk about my dad.”

She scoffs and the rest follow. “You’re scum just like him,” a guy says. “Got some dirty blood in you.” The rest shiver in disgust, then burst out laughing.

I give each and every one death glares. I wish I could do something. But what? Get violent? Show them what happens when they speak ill of my dad? Of course I can’t do that. You can imagine the media having a field day with Beatrice Harrington’s son causing a scene and harming the other kids. It’ll ruin Mom and ruin me. As much as I don’t like my mom, I would never do that to her.

The guys look like they’re searching for a fight. Theywantto rile me up so I’ll end up on the news. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Turning on my heels, I stalk away from them, pass Mom who is busy laughing with her friends and doesn’t notice me, and find a room to the side devoid of people.

This looks like a lounge area for people who need to get away. I plop down on one of the couches and whip out my phone from my pocket. I’m about to open my app to continue drawing the cartoon I’m working on, but my finger hovers over the button to text Sophie. We exchanged numbers earlier this week and have texted a little. Well, she texted me homework mostly.