“Her slick white froth oozed from her love canal?” I pressed my fist to my mouth and dry heaved. “Why is it frothy? Why is it oozing? Why is it a canal? This isn’t Venice. There’s not a gondola in sight.” I snapped the book shut. “I’ve tried and I can’t. My brain needs a deep clean. From now on, I’ll stick to reading your books.” Annie snickered from her spot by the window. Our plane was somewhere over the scenic hills of Kentucky, en route to Texas. “I’ll spare you the agony,” she said, sliding her laptop onto her thighs, lifting the tray table, and rummaging through the bag by her feet. With
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