Blame it on the shame Part 3

He takes my hand in his, gripping it tightly. “Your father was right, you are different. Maybe it's not such a bad thing after all.”

I break the handshake. “Maybe not.”

I refuse to let myself smile as I walk out of the room.

I refuse to let myself breathe as I leave the building.

But when I hop on a Ducati and travel approximately 1,500 feet away, press the button, and watch the place light up like the 4th of July?

I let myself do both.