“Fuck,” she muttered, staring down at her phone with contempt.
I couldn’t help but admire how confidently the cigarette hung from her mouth as she slid her fingers across the screen.
She seemed so much older than the girl I had squeezed goodbye in Dayton. That somehow those six months moved faster for her in my absence and that, despite all of my guilt and wine-fueled text messages, she had actually left me behind. That perhaps I had been behind all along.
She removed the cigarette from her lips, lifted her narrowed eyes, and scanned the horizon before thrusting the phone into my hands.
“Here, city slicker. You figure it out.”