“There’s gotta be someone you wanna kiss.” She manages to sit up cross-legged in her bed, chin in her hands like a toddler. “You would know,” I remind her. “You should kiss Leo Stone,” she states simply. “Leo Stone’s so cute. And good at hockey.” “You don’t watch hockey.” “And even I know he’s good.” She adds far too loudly, “And hot.” “He is hot.” “So, you should want to kiss him,” she continues for me. “You should sleep.” “You should kiss Leo Stone.” “I’m turning the light off now.” “Dream about Leo Stone,” she sing-songs. “Don’t pull trig,” I mimic.
