Jynelle was standing in our kitchen wearing one fuzzy sock, one combat boot, and a silk robe she’d stolen from her aunt. Her spoon was frozen mid-air, yogurt trembling as she gawked at me like I was the human embodiment of a soap opera cliffhanger. The microwave was blinking something angry because she’d forgotten her tea, and the toaster was beeping even though neither of us had put bread in it. I was slumped on the floor like a guilt-ridden ghost in an oversized hoodie, hair still wet from the storm, heart rotting in a Tupperware.
“I kissed him,” I mumbled into the floor.
“You kissed him?” she shrieked.
“I kissed him back.”
Her spoon hit the counter.
“You kissed the man who broke you into alphabet soup, Scarlett. The man with the face. The trauma. The umbrella!”
“I KNOW, JYNELLE.”
