“Thank you again.”
“It’s not a problem, really.”
Roman’s gaze never wavers from the road as he drives us to Strawberry Fields. We’ve taken his Jeep instead of the bike.
My sensitive stomach feels as if I swallowed a gallon of acid, but it’s already feeling better. All in all, the side effects are horrid when they hit, but the aftermath isn’t as bad. With the initial trials, Georgia and I would be sick for days.
I finger the red bandana around my neck, smiling at the memory of when she gave it to me. Roman’s admission about not needing pictures to recall special events sticks in my mind. I agree with him. I don’t have that many photographs of Georgia because neither of us wanted a reminder of how ghastly we looked. We promised that would change once we got well. It might have been wishf
