EIGHTTEEN
I glance down at the notifications on my phone, the text messages, the missed calls, all from Bucket.
It’s stupid, so stupid that the bucket emoji gives me some sort of emotional Pavlovian response of all things, stomach twisting, throat closing up just by seeing the emoji displayed on my notifications.
I’m afraid to open them, actually, to check the text messages, and the voicemails of all things.
I don’t know what to do. I bite at my bottom lip, worried.
Katie took me out to lunch, and now she’s hanging out on our couch, and we’re (kinda not, actually) watching Pacific Rim, the creepy aliens with the big, shark-like snouts freaking me out. There’s a lot of yelling, a lot of lights flashing, and Katie’s leaning forward, her elbows on her thighs right now, her attention rive
