“You, Evie, are an asshat,” Vick tells me straight out, not sugar-coating it one bit.
I blink at my sister, trying to figure out how an ass can possibly become a hat. “Excuse me? What did you just say to me?” I’m still in bed two days later, Vick having slept over on my couch pull-out bed, to which she’s taken like a duck to water, or however that particular saying goes.
“You heard me, Evie. I’ve let you stew in it for approximately forty-eight hours. A solid forty-eight,” Vick repeats, coming over onto my bed and making the mattress bounce a little so my nausea—my ever-present friend ever since I hit my head—rears its ugly little head.
“Enough is enough. I’m calling it,” Vick says, pretending that she’s blowing a whistle.
“You can leave anytime you want, Vick. No one’s stopping you,”
