Chapter 5I’d eaten Middle Eastern food before. Georgia is not that backwoods. Or at least not the part we were from. But I never would’ve thought I’d be eating Middle Eastern food in the Middle East—with my ex-husband, a Baptist minister, and his wife.
In any case, the falafel was cooked to perfection, the hummus made from scratch, the pita baked on the premises, the salad cool in the heat of the day, and the Coke the cherry on the sundae, the one universally iconic thing I could get behind, and ironically headquartered in Georgia.
Curtis was newly clean and thankfully dressed. Justine was far less tense. For Justine. Meaning, at a six instead of the usual nine or ten. And Matty and I were still remaining civil. In fact, his knee was pressed to mine as we sat at a countertop and devoured
