“We’re calling a truce,” I announced. “That’s not how that works.” “I’m forty years old. I run a multimillion-dollar business. I own property. I pay taxes. I vote. I cook. I get the goddamn flu shot every year.” “Congratulations. Where can I send your gold star?” “We’re adults,” I said, pointing to the window where it appeared chaos was still reigning. “And that in there was the latest performance in a long line of immature shit shows that we’ve starred in together.” Sloane crossed her arms and looked down at her feet. Her boots were brown with purple stitching. “I’m not saying you’re right.
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