Moments later, heels echo loudly on the wood as Francesca makes her way up the stairs and down the hallway toward us. I guess that’s one comfort in this house—I’ll always know where Francesca is and if she’s coming. She’s definitely no Casper the fucking ghost with those monstrosities on her feet. How many blisters did she have to suffer through before her feet were calloused enough to wear those all day, every day? Twenty? Thirty? Maybe a weird number like forty-two.
What did heels ever do to you
