Becca
“Talk to me, Island.” Our childhood nicknames died hard. She used to hate it, but now she accepted that it was a term of endearment. We were exiting an Uber we’d taken back to my house, where I insisted she spend the night after she polished off almost an entire bottle of wine herself.
She didn’t say anything, so I herded her to my living room sofas and grabbed us each a tall glass of water.
“What’s going on? You’re trying to bury something in a vat of grapes, and I’m not letting you.” She turned to me, and I could see the pain in her face. It was unusual for her. She always had her life together. “Is it Tom?” When I saw the pain turn to sadness, I knew. “I’m gonna kill him. What did he do?”
always“I think we’re done.” She stared blankly out the front window. They’d been together
