TWELVEThe morning after Roscoe’s party, Anaya made omelets. She barely touched hers but drank two cups of coffee while Roscoe talked about the logistics of airstrikes. She had stayed up late putting the house back in order and thinking about her lunch with Jeff. The idea of working with him made her nervous. She didn’t know if they could just move forward like they didn’t have history. She nodded intermittently, only half-listening to her dad.
“I guess I’ve probably already told you about the F-22 Raptor,” said Roscoe, sensing her distraction.
“What?”
He smiled. “I said I’ve already told you about the F-22. What’s going on baby girl? Talk to me.”
Anaya wasn’t one for complaining, but she needed to get this off of her chest. “My boss Wendy makes me sick. Sometimes I just want to go off
