lit up my phone scree

t coyote ugly thing I like. Denim

," his "buddy," his secret late-night call, this wa

long-term care facility, a ghost of the man he once was. Years ago, he' d been working in his garage, a young Andrew hanging around

injury. A veg

e him. That promise was the thin, fragile thread connecting us, t

m shorts, the scuffed cowboy boots. It wasn't me, not really, but

on the steering wheel. This was it. I knocked

or swu

m, a crowd of his medical school friends mingled, drinks in hand. And next to hi

in," Andrew announced to

then crumbled. M

with false pity. "I told you we were just friends. You can' t just show up

"When the crazy side-chick won' t take a

. The room spun. I

cked up a small, brightly colored box from the floor, and tossed i

one to hear. "Take care of yourself. Beca

of the crowd was a physical force, pushing me back, crushing the air from