“What is wrong with everyone?” she demanded to no one. “Well, I like to think there’s a little something wrong with all of us.” Emma clamped a hand over her racing heart. “Jesus, Phoebe. You just scared eight years off of my life.” Phoebe slid off the picnic table she’d been perched upon. “Imagine my terror when a raving lunatic approaches shouting into the void.” “Touché,” Emma offered a watery smile. Phoebe patted the bench next to her. “Come sit. We don’t have to talk.”
