34
I had Addy and an overnight bag in the car, sharing space with the bags of groceries that never made it inside, but no destination. Driving the opposite direction out of my neighborhood from my usual route, I pulled into a shopping center and parked in front of a pet superstore. It had gone dark, and the city seemed particularly shadowy outside our parking lot puddle. Streetlights appeared as faint, decorative strands in the distance, engulfed by tree canopy.
“Are you mad at me?” Addy asked.
I’d pretended not to watch as she kissed Ben on the cheek goodbye, and it was the first time she’d spoken since we left my house.
“Not really,” I said.
“Yes, you are,” she said gently.
“Maybe a little bit,” I admitted, voice as soft as hers had been.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like
