Her cheeks are tear-streaked and salt-ruined.
Her hair turned into her stress ball.
She stands there, dead-eyed.
Fuck.
So much for talking about Andrew.
Behind her, it's worse.
There's a Kleenex pyramid in the middle of the floor, a snowfall of used tissues blanketing every surface, quilts and pillows piled high on the couch, stacks of plates, cups, wine glasses all around, barricading her misery.
This is code red.
This iswe’re-past-the-point-of-saving-herbad.
And she’s staring at me,
eyes glassy,
zombie-mode.
Absolutely not.
I take one step back.
Then another.
If I back away slow,
she won’t notice I was ever here.
Then I groan because?—
shit,I love her.
I close the door behind me and
throw myself into the room.
“Celie—”
I fling my purse on the counter.
“I manually worshipped six and a half inches of dick last month.
“With my hand.”
She says and does nothing.
I shrug, nonchalant.
“Six. And a half. Inches. Celie.
“Six and a fuckin’ half.
“Never bragged about it.
