She was making a snow angel over her unmade bed, staring at the ceiling hollowly.
“Is Tucker really that bad?” I whispered.
“Dude, the worst. He has no sense of humor either. Before he went off lobster hunting, we attended a twenty-four-week ultrasound checkup, and when we were in an elevator full of people on our way to the sonographer, I asked him very loudly, ‘So when are you going to tell your wife about us?’ and you know what he did?”
I pressed my lips together, stifling a laugh. Dylan was so fantastically herself, it sometimes took my breath away. “Peed his pants cackling, as he should?”
“You’d think so, right? But no. He got all mad and started yelling at me that I was immature and too much to handle. What does that even mean?” Her eyes—a shade darker than Row’s—sparkled with un
