ANGEL ROSE
I'm sprawled out on my bed, staring up at the ceiling of my apartment—just a blank, white canvas. I'm completely zoned out. I’ve been at it for an hour, trying to paint the last sixty minutes over. It’s not working. The image is seared into my mind: Frankie’s face, a mask of cold fury. The roar of his voice.
Over. The word is a stone dropped into the still pond of my mind, sending out ripples of shock, cold and slow. A week. One week of official, breathless, all-consuming us, and I destroyed it with one panicked, stupid lie.
Spending too much time together is a recipe for disaster. His warning plays on a loop, a mocking prophecy. Was he right? Do we need space? Two days. Could I survive two days without the solid weight of him beside me in bed, the scratch of his stubble agai
