TorrieThis isn’t good.
I sit in my armchair in the den, patting Jane absently, staring at the wall.
I’ve flung my phone into the corner of the room, won’t look at it now.
This isn’t good. It hasn’t been for some time and I know it.
There’s no escaping Gavin now, no escaping how I feel. What happened at the bar there… I shouldn’t go meet him tonight and yet, I don’t have any choice.
Papa’s words echo in my head, “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
I go over, pick up my phone, turn on some music.
Bob Dylan, “Like a Rolling Stone.”
Jane c***s her head at me, as if she too is thinking: Why pick a song that so accurately describes how horrible I feel? Like a helpless stone rolling down a hill, picking up speed as I go, barreling toward my doom?
“Why do you listen to this crap anyway?”
