“So sometimes I just . . . dream of it again. I’m trapped in the back seat, and people I love die in front of me, and there’s nothing I can do but watch.” I bite the inside of my cheek, staring at the hazy outline of our evening together: the empty tray that we’d eaten the pasta from, my beer bottle and her bourbon glass. My laptop, decorated with an OBX sticker, on my nightstand next to the Anthony Bourdain memoir I’m reading. After the mess with the photographer earlier, my evening ended up being perfect—because any time spent with Mia is perfect—but that didn’t matter once I fell asleep.
