“How was it?” Hannah gawps on the air. She takes in Baker’s expression: the downward crinkle of her eyebrows, the jutting out of her bottom lip, and her eyes, bleary as they are, colored over with that perfect dark roast shade. There’s something unnamable in her expression—some kind of bigger question that Hannah feels shimmering on the air. “I liked kissing you better,” Hannah whispers.
