Myra
The apartment above the bakery felt too small, the air slightly stale, but I didn’t care.
I didn't want comfort. I didn't want to be held or whispered to. I wanted to be overwhelmed. I wanted the kind of sensory overload that would force the images of the Shady Maple—the rusted cars, the blue tarps, the poverty and the desperation —out of my head. I needed to move until I couldn't think, until the version of myself I’d seen in MacKenzie’s father’s eyes disappeared into a haze of heat and friction.
I pulled Tony through the door, my movements urgent and jagged. I knew I was using him as a shield against my own mind, and by the look in his eyes, he knew it too. There was a quiet, sad, heavy sort of patience in the way he looked at me, but he didn't stop me.
He didn't wait for me to
