This is the brunch from hell.
I push around my pancakes, drowning the flapjacks in a pool of syrup. Beside me, Ashley is on her third b****y Mary of the morning—not because Ashley is hungover but because she must listen to Alissa speak.
I eye the girl in question.
There is nothing wrong with Alissa per se; in fact, if she would stop feeding Scott strawberries, I could grudgingly admit that I could probably like her. But there’s something about her voice.
It’s high-pitched and grating, like nails scratching across a chalkboard. I feel as if my ears are being slowly sandpapered off every time Alissa speaks.
OK, that’s harsh and dramatic. But I’m allowed to be a little petty this morning, especially because this brunch was not my idea, and given the opportunity, I might strangle myself t
