EDEN
The little Italian place Ava loves is tucked between a dry cleaner and a nail salon. Fairy lights have been strung across the ceiling, there are red-checkered tablecloths, and there's a warm buttery smell that usually makes my mouth water. Tonight it just makes my stomach twist tighter.
We're in the back corner booth, the one Ava always requests because it's "cozy and private." She's already ordered the truffle ravioli for both of us without asking, plus a bottle of Chianti which she's now pouring like it's water.
She slides my glass towards me and leans forward on her elbows, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's determined to solve.
"Okay," she says. "Spill. You've been doing that thing where you stare at your phone like it personally insult
