If he was sober when Vincenzo was texting me, I don’t think he is now. He’s standing behind me, close enough that his chest kisses my back each time he inhales. “He didn’t deserve it.” My shoulders tense. “The date?” “That dress.” I hate that his words hold the power to light little candles of confidence in the back of my mind. “Don’t say things like that.” “You look beautiful.”
