“She’s a hopeless romantic. She’s basically just waiting for some sappy guy to come in and sweep her off her feet in the rain on the hood of a truck.” She laughs. “What?” “You dope.” I shake my head. “That’s not me.” “So?” “So what? That’s not me.” She narrows her eyes. “But it could be.” “No,” I say. “It couldn’t. Trust me. Emmy and I are different.” “Different isn’t always bad,” she says. “And she makes you better.”
