TWENTY-SIX
“I’ve got a hypothetical situation I’d like to run by you,” I say, rustling the sheets in bed, dying from embarrassment. Imagine calling up my old roommate for advice when we’re fourteen hours apart, imagine how desperate I am that I’m trying to get this to work.
Imagine.
“Yeah, okay, shoot. Lay it on me, I can handle it,” Aria says, her voice so calm and sure that if I close my eyes, I can imagine us back in our old shitty little kitchen that barely held the three of us (Aria, Maddie and me) while we cooked together—one of us chopping, one of us cooking, the other plating and cleaning up as we went. I miss them, I miss her and Maddie both. Hell, they’d get a kick out of Seoul, and Maddie would lose her mind at all the soccer I get to watch here; it’s not as popular as in Eng
