She was the woman I had spent years pretending not to love.
We were supposed to be here with four other people.
Devon had “caught the flu.” Priya had “family trouble.” My brother Caleb had texted at noon saying his truck battery died in his driveway.
All three cancellations came within forty minutes.
Sophie had shown up outside my Portland apartment anyway, holding two coffees and a paper bag from Marcy’s Bakery.
“Well,” she said, cheeks pink from the cold, “either we waste the deposit, or we prove we are two emotionally stable adults.”
I looked at the bag.
“Are those cinnamon rolls?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am emotionally stable enough to drive.”
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