Leonard
There’s literally nothing for me to do at the San Esteban build on Sunday other than snap at people. Carter once more called me out for being a butthurt asshole over Evangeline. He knows I watched him and Evangeline f*****g by the pool.
“You could’ve come down, joined in,” he said.
“f**k you, you know I can’t.”
He just shrugged, and after that, I didn’t want to have anything to do with work, so now I’m driving back to Mark’s.
The place is too quiet. No sounds of sugary-sweet pop music come from the back yard or from Evangeline’s room. I don’t hear the inane chatter of contestants on those reality baking shows that she seems to like watching. She isn’t curled up in the corner of the large sofa, phone in hand and brow wrinkled in concentration.
“Evangeline?”
No answer.
I hate
