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My silence seemed to embarrass her, so I quickly composed myself and told her, “Please, go ahead. We can continue after you’re done.” She frowned. I pointed to her bed as I took a seat. “I’ll just wait here, baby.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Sam, I have been coming home every time to poop.” What? That’s it? All my agony over the past few months—where she was going, who she might’ve been with, what could she be doing—was over poop?
Luv Shuv in New York (Luv Shuv, #1)
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