“I was expecting Pippa,” she says. Her words have a bite to them that I’m not entirely surprised by. She refuses to look at me as she pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. Even her jeans don’t look the way they should. They’re not worn in the slightest. There isn’t a single hole or fray on them. I hate it. Mare always had a way of wearing jeans until they were so destroyed; Mom would scold her until she got a new pair. My heart twinges from the memory of Mom.
