It would make it so easy if I could just find what he’s asking for, I know. It would quell the conundrum in me. It would make me make sense—my hesitation for vengeance, my hunger for Dash’s admiration. Yet with every passing second, my silent struggle growing more frantic, I find nothing. I scour Easters when he grimaced at the egg-dyeing colors little Olivia got on her hands or her meaninglessly expensive dress. I hunt every dinner I can remember for encouragement or interest instead of sarcasm and scrolling his phone. I scrounge for signs of companionship, finding only weekends when his
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