The tray of s’mores is shoved under my nose. My gaze rises, meeting Carter’s. He smiles. “Made you a special one.” He points to a giant, goopy mess. “Cookie, marshmallow, icing, marshmallow, cookie. I call it the Cara Brodie Double-Decker Special.” Stupid. So fucking stupid. Cara Brodie does not cry. Okay, I cry, but rarely. And I am not going to cry over a stupid fucking double-decker Oreo s’more. I’m just not. * * * I cried over a double-decker Oreo s’more. Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it.
