“On that cheery note, I’m going back inside,” says Constance. She runs her hand over the small of my back as she gets up. A warm shudder courses through me. I watch her as she walks toward the front of the cottage. The feeling stays with me in the chilly nighttime air. “I don’t like her one bit,” Amina says. “I like her very much,” I say. I bite my tongue, feeling that familiar stab of shame. I hate that I still feel this way even this far from Lille. “Obviously.”
