I stop her before she can yank a whole chunk of her curls out and smooth them down, reclipping one of the discarded butterflies where she’d pulled it loose. Only three of them are left in her hair, a colorful graveyard of discarded butterflies littering the concrete around us. “They’re not stupid. Tyler is stupid,” I grumble. I don’t know who the guy is, but he sounds like a prick I’d love to meet fist to face.
