PARKER
I wake up with puffy eyes and a headache that feels like it’s coming from behind my ribs. Like grief, not dehydration.
My dress is draped over the chair by the window, still clinging to its shape from last night. The heels that carried me through a ballroom and a bombshell and a marble-floor mic drop are upside down on the rug. My clutch is empty. I don’t even remember setting it down.
I came home. That much I know. Slipped out while they were still arguing. Got in the rideshare. Told the driver to take the long way and cried the whole time into the satin shoulder strap of my bag.
I’m not mad at them. I’m mad at me. Because I did this.
I threw a live wire into the middle of their already impossible lives. I let things happen. I let myself want too much. Take too much. And now I
