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“So you aren’t going to stay over?”
“No.”
“You said you would.”
I give her a look. “I said ‘maybe.’”
She frowns. “So why no now?”
I roll my eyes at her — gesture to her vaguely. “Because you have a face.”
“I don’t have a face,” she pouts. “I mean, well, I have a face but—”
I give her a look. “You have bedroom eyes.”
She pouts more. “These are my regular eyes.”
“They are not.” I tell her, even though they sort of are.
“This is how I always look at you,” she tells me and I’m telling you — that, right there, is the truth. As well as the reason why we got pregnant in high school.
I swallow heavy.
“I’m leaving,” I tell her.
“No!” She stomps her little foot.
I press my mouth into her forehead.
“Breakfast tomorrow?” I offer as a shitty alternative.
She sighs. “Okay.”
