"What are you writing down in there?" Eve asks.
"It doesn't look like a sketchbook," Nadia adds, setting her wine glass down.
I shake my head at them.
"Just writing some thoughts down. I've had this journal for a while but never used it."
"Oh yeah? Are you writing about the roses guy?" Melanie asks.
We're waiting for her old-fart fiancé to show up with some of his friends.
Old balls.
Gross.
"Aren't you glad we picked this place? It's so intimate. No one will see us looking like gold diggers." I try—and fail—to change the subject.
The restaurant is a rustic Balkan place, colorful and warm. The staff is friendly, and I get to eat dishes from my parents' home country. I was born here in the States. I'm American. My father was born here too. My mother didn't move here until she was a
