So, the next evening, when she heard her phone ring, Shell knew. She’d been sitting on her now-favorite kitchen stool, slicing apples for Ben’s cocktail hour. She was entertaining the other four members of her family (just back) with tales—selected, sure; censored, a bit–of her twenty-two hours and eighteen minutes with Astrid.
“You remember. Our incredible coach? I’ve told you.” They sighed, rolled their eyes. They knew. “Boy, you guys! She’s even neater in person, one on one. Came over Friday after practice; I fixed her dinner. Right here! She’d hurt herself on the hurdles, so I made her my magic blueberry potion.”
“Like you fixed for my sore ankle that time?” Angie asked. “Lucky Astrid.”
“That’s the one, my steppie.” (Ang’ giggled) “Well, it got so late, she slept over.”
“And then y
