“Samantha Gabriella Thomas. You better clarify that statement”—her voice raises—“or I’m calling Mom and telling her you’re getting Eiffel Towered. And that you’re not even in Paris.” I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see me. And I’m already off the countertop. “Tell her,” I challenge, huffing a laugh, “and I’ll tell her that you only go to church because you’re trying to fuck the priest after you read about it happening in some fucking romance book.” “Ohhhhhh…” The word is drawn out like the line of battle. “Low blow. That book is fucking spiritual self-care.”
