Then she declared she was “slightly poetic.”
Then she tried to open the wrong car door, hit her forehead on the window, and accused me of moving the handle just to confuse her.
And now she’s perched in the passenger seat, arms crossed, scarf wrapped dramatically around her neck, looking like an angry kitten plotting revenge.
I buckle my seat belt.
She stares at me.
“I’m not drunk.”
“Sure.”
“I’m—not—drunk. I’m just…” She waves her hand in the air, searching for the word. “… effervescent.”
I burst out laughing.
She nods, proud of herself, as if that proved her point.
The engine hums to life, headlights washing over the damp asphalt.
Silence.
A whole minute of it.
Then—
“I hate you.”
“Yes, Angel, that’s what you yelled at everyone while I hauled you over my shoulder.”
Her lips twitch like she’s searching for a deadlier insult but comes up empty.
Resigned, she goes for pure, dramatic passive aggression—arms crossed, sinking into the seat with flair.
I drive her home while she mutters under her breath about me, about the game, about wine, about my existence in general.
It’s… adorable.
And no, I cannot think that. So I delete it mentally. Immediately.
We pull into her driveway.
I turn off the engine.
“Okay, we’re here.”
She doesn’t move.
I get out and open her door.
She still doesn’t move.
“Sloane.”
“I’m not going in.”
“Why not?”
