I’m not a crier. I don’t get attached enough to cry, but I had an attachment forming to what I thought was going to be the recipe to pull me out of my rut. Head falling back, I close my eyes, attempting to swallow down my disappointment. That is, until I feel two long arms, corded with muscles, swallow me whole in a hug. My eyes pop open to find a gray T-shirt pulled taut over a chest that my face is buried in.
