Just as I’m moving that way, a conversation between two women catches my attention. The pair are huddled close, but their voices carry on the wind. My name filters between them like a dirty secret. Presley is mentioned soon after. The brunette is scowling, the expression pinching her face. “I can’t believe she isn’t with them.” Her friend—a plastic-looking redhead—scoffs, disdain curling her upper lip. “How pathetic. She has him watching her kid. Is he trying to compensate for the real father being gay?”
