“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m sort of thirsty.” “Me, too. What do you want?” “There’s a pitcher of some red . . . stuff in the fridge.” “Red stuff? What is it?” She made a weird face. Embarrassment, and it was fucking cute. “I don’t want to tell you.” “Why not?” “Because it’s not exactly a sophisticated drink and the little girl comment is going to come out of your mouth.” I laughed, figuring it out. “Oh, please tell me it’s cherry Kool-Aid.” “It’s not.” She scowled. “It’s fruit punch Kool-Aid. Don’t judge me.”
