33
Gabi
“I’m sorry about this,” I said as I drove us back to Porto Alegre. Both of us were dressed up—Tyler in dark jeans and a dark gray shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair had a little more shine than usual, which led me to believe he had applied some kind of gel or mousse. But just enough so the strands didn’t fall into his eyes all the time.
As for me, I had opted for a tight black dress and black high heel sandals. The nightlife in Porto Alegre was a lively one and people dressed like models. It began late and ended early in the morning.
“It’s okay,” he said, looking out the window. “I get it that they expect you to introduce me to your friends and go out like a normal couple.”
I flinched.
A normal couple. Worse than those words were when husband and wife cross
