“When did you move to Chicago?” I ask as if I have every right to know the answer, and a part of me feels like I do. She knew I lived here. She should’ve warned me. Her chin tilts up defiantly. “April.” She’s been here for six months? “And you didn’t think you should tell me?” “And say what?” She exhales a laugh. “‘Hey, remember me? That girl you hate. Yeah, I moved to Chicago! Let’s get drinks!’ It’s been six years, Rio. You don’t own this city, and I don’t owe you a phone call. And besides, even if I did, I lost your number years ago.”
