Myra
I led MacKenzie upstairs, the silence between us heavy and brittle. She walked with her head down, her wet sneakers making a pathetic squelch-slap sound on the wooden treads. I didn't try to fill the void with small talk; girls like MacKenzie—girls like the one I used to be—could smell forced pity from a mile away, and it usually made them bolt.
"Towels are in the cabinet above the toilet," I said, opening the apartment door. The air was warmer up here now, the baseboard heat beginning to knock with a steady, rhythmic heat. "The water heater is a bit temperamental, so give it a minute. There’s a clean sweatshirt on the bed you can borrow while yours dries."
She looked at the sweatshirt—a thick, grey cashmere blend I’d brought from Rochester—and then back at me. Her expression didn'
