8
That night, Agathe huddled deeper into her couch, the brown leather stretching and cracking beneath her. She tugged the hood of her over-sized, white, cable-knit sweater over her head, creating a mild barrier between her and her television, then hugged a multi-colored patchwork cushion to her chest. But no amount of extra warmth or comfort could soften the glare she aimed at the love scene to her favorite romantic comedy.
Her insides coiled, and her eyes stung. She tried to blink a bunch, but that didn’t help. This movie was her go-to movie, her small slice of calm and romantic escapism on a bad day. But not tonight. Tonight, the quick shots of semi-n***d bodies and hungry kisses made her want to scream.
Her lunch with Luke today meant she no longer saw her own potential redemption in
