“I don’t sulk,” I protest, and her eyebrow arches. “I . . . brood. It’s different.” “How?” She tilts her head. “It’s . . . manly.” “Well, you and your manly sulking—I’m sorry, I mean brooding, need to fuck off and fix this or I’m going to kill you.” She pats my chest. “Good talk, by the way. He’s at work right now.” She starts to walk away.
