It doesn’t make sense.
Except that Briar is here.
We have a second chance to figure this shit out together.
And Rory passed along the name of her trauma therapist before she left, along with a whispered word saying she’d already booked Briar an appointment for the next day.
Presumptuous.
But effective, I have to admit.
The kittens scatter and I turn to see Briar standing in the hall. Her skin is flushed pink and she’s wrapped in a robe, her hair bundled on the top of her head. “Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.”
And…cue awkward silence.
“You tired?” I ask softly.
“I thought I was.”
“But now?”
“My mind is going a thousand different directions.”
“Want to talk about it?”
She sighs, tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “No.” Her mouth hitches up. “I’m tired of talking.”
“Want to watch a movie?”
Her face goes soft. “Which movie?”
“You pick.”
“Really?”
“It’s your turn.”
We always switched off, and, five years ago, during our last movie night together, I made the selection.
Her brows drag together as she processes that. “God, that’s right. You chose that awful action flick.”
“It wasn’t awful.”
Now those brows fly up. “Really?That’swhat you’re going with?”
“The fight scenes were epic.”
“And improbable.” A beat. “With CGI from the eighties.”
My lips twitch but I just pass her the remote then head for the kitchen to make popcorn. By the time I’m coming back, a bowl in my hands, she’s made a choice.
One has me stifling a groan.
The Princess Bride,really?
We must have watched it a hundred times together.
