I’m still in shock that he said it out loud when West adds, “What’s your wrestler name? I’m going to watch now. Cora, you watch, right?” One glance at Ford, and I see him zeroed in on the couch behind us. Rhys turns to look—just in time for Cora to turn the color of the world’s ripest cherry. She stares at Rhys, her gaze dropping to the sleeve of black tattoos that scroll up one arm. Then she mutters, “Fuck my life,” and leaves the living room without looking up from the floor. “Is she okay?” Rhys sounds genuinely concerned.
