Fifteen minutes later, she flies down the stairs with a fresh coat of makeup and a heavy smell of Aqua Net. Her hair is teased, her lips are crimson, and her too short skirt is paired with a ridiculously skimpy crop top. Save for looking like a middle-aged hooker, she's not half bad.
Yanking her car keys from the coffee table, she dashes to the door, not even looking back when she yells, "I'm meeting Tom for drinks. Don't wait up!" The front door slams and I'm alone again.
I could get used to this.
Before I jinx it, I feel like I should cross my fingers and kiss rosary beads, even though I'm not Catholic. Maybe she was too wasted last night to remember our fight. It's a huge relief, but I'm pretty sure I just used up the last chunk of luck I had left.
I turn the lock behind her, kn
