“What the fuck was that?” I whisper. Farrow glares at Jane. “You can’t like him.” “She doesn’t like him,” I say to Farrow. “She would’ve told me.” Jane is still staring at the spot where he left. Blue eyes enlarging like a god granted immortality to her cats. “He must’ve seen my Instagram story. I said that I had cramps and forgot to bring a heating pad on the bus.” She glances at the hot water bottle that’ll help her cramps. “She likes him,” Farrow says in pissed disbelief. “Jane.”
