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Maybe the park imprinted on me werewolf-style. There have been weirder imprints—looking at you, Stephenie Meyer.
The five of us see each other all the time, but it still never seems like enough. We’re all joined at the hip, like different colors of Play-Doh mixed together over time. Inseparable.
A stopped clock is still right twice a day, I suppose.
“Yeah, sure, the dude has problems,” Quinn says, tilting her head side to side before taking one long gulp of her drink and setting it down on the table. “But I think you might be ninety-nine percent of them.”
“The Grizzly didn’t mean to hurt me,” she says. “It’s the ones we love that sometimes hurt us the most.” She barks out a laugh, severing our moment. I let out a laugh too.
“Don’t let his storm cloud rain on your flower garden.” But I don’t tell her that, sometimes, plants need a little water to thrive.
