Zeke let me cry into his shoulder for awhile on the couch. Then, after I’d wiped my nose on his sleeve, he’d gotten up to find me some Advil. “So, what’s going on Trace?” he asked, as he rifled around in the medicine cabinet.
“He doesn’t love me anymore!” I wailed. I flopped into the couch and buried my face in a pillow.
“Well, yeah,” he replied. “That’s what happens with breakups.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. But he couldn’t really hear me. Continue reading Zeke Comes to Visit. Part Two.