(Rebecca's POV)
Connie holds up the one-eared cat mug like it’s Exhibit A.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, we are not drinking champagne from cat mugs in my kitchen like two women who peaked in grad school.” She sets the mug on the counter. Hard. “You spent six years drinking chamomile at 9 p.m. Tonight we do something different."
"Connie, I don't—"
"You slapped your husband's mistress in his own office and dropped your badge in a puddle of oat milk coffee. That's not a Tuesday. That's a milestone. We're celebrating."
"It's Thursday."
"Even better.
She’s already in my suitcase. I don’t remember giving her permission. I definitely don’t. Connie doesn’t operate on permission — she operates on verdicts, and the verdict is already in.
She pulls out a dress. Black. Simple. The only dress I pack
