Three years ago.
Jane fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as though the ground under her cheap sneakers was suddenly too hot. She self-consciously checked that her t-shirt covered the broken zipper on her jeans one more time. Her fingers held on to the hem of the cotton shirt, stretching the fabric that was already dangerously thin and would probably tear if she wasn’t more careful.
She almost regretted coming to the party Dorcus had insisted she attends. Her friend meant well in her own way. That was one of the reasons she had agreed despite all the excuses she could have given and probably should have given the state she was in now. But Jane really hadn’t wanted to offend the only person she called a friend and who often bailed her out of sleeping on an empty stom
