“What are you doing here?” he asked me directly.

The guy looked about Manuela’s age. Maybe a year or two younger. He wore a suit and tie, expensive shoes, nothing that matched her world. Too polished, too expensive, too much cologne, hair too perfectly styled.

“I’m Jimi’s father,” I said, knowing it sounded pathetic.

I wasn’t ready to fight for her this soon. And I definitely wasn’t ready for the jealousy that was tearing me apart from the inside.

“You think the fact that ...