Since Giana died, nothing in my life has resembled anything that anyone would call “normal.” Not my marriage or my grief. Not the ugly black rage I’ve been nursing in my chest for five years.
So yeah, I’m happy for her.
I’m also a little jealous.
“Timeout,” I say, scooting my chair back. “I need to pee before you get to the part where Fireman Chad lets you slide down his pole.”
“You know,” she sighs, “if you keep making bad puns about my s*x life, I’m going to stop confiding in you.”
“Liar. I’m the first person you call when someone hot and new rails you.”
“He didn’t rail me!” she protests.
“Yet,” Dani concedes, beaming. “But…”
“Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” My smile fades as I weave between strollers and highchairs on wobbly legs and push into the little single-stall bat
