Sam’s box sits nestled in the center between me behind the wheel and Bryony in the passenger seat; she’s my navigator as we weave out of the busy city streets and toward my new house on the outskirts.
She rests a hand over the white swoosh on the box’s faded orange lid. “I’m glad you called Sam last night,” she says, beaming. “Definitely the right choice. And it’s about time you put an end to his suffering.”
“That might be exaggerating a little.”
“Come on, Frankie. It’s obvious he’s in love with you, and you’re being a jerk because he hurt your feelers. He’s been suffering.” I haven’t shown Bryony the heartfelt letter Sam wrote—and I won’t. It’s too personal. But she’s not wrong.
The truck bounces hard when I take a corner too close and scrape the sidewalk. “You should’ve hired a movin
