Makayla sighs, and I am ashamed when I realize where my mind has been. I don’t want to think about Luka Volkov. He isn’t worth a second of my time.
“Hopefully they won’t be back again tonight,” she says.
“Hopefully.” I sip my coffee, which mostly tastes like sugar thanks to my additions, and let Makayla talk for a while. She complains about her landlord trying to raise her rent in the middle of her lease, talks about a trashy reality television show she knows is scripted, but can’t stop watching anyway, and smiles reliving the previous weekend when her dad came to the city to visit and they went to a baseball game and then got drunk at an adult arcade. I listen with jealousy, wishing my life could be so simple. Wishing I could spend a fun weekend with my dad in the city, hanging out like
