Thatcher has spent countless nights at this sports bar with his family. He’s told me about how his uncles would buy Banks and him beers when they were teenagers. Yes, even underage, and they’d watch football and blow off steam. He’s rigid against me, boiling. “You grew up in this shithole like the rest of us!” “And I made it out! Unlike you!” I cringe, hating every little jab that Tony loves to take. South Philly is a beautiful place, and I want to turn and defend Thatcher to the death, but I made a promise to watch Banks. Not coming to my boyfriend’s defense—it hurts like a billion blades in
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