It’s Sara.
Luke’s ex-wife.
She’s standing right in front of me, dressed in a faded hoodie and jeans, her hair unwashed, sticking out from under the hood in unruly strands. There’s a gash on her forehead, faint but unmistakable. It looks a few days old, the bruising a dull yellow-brown.
“What do you want, Sara?” I ask.
Her lips curve into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t for the bitterness behind it. “Is that how you greet your friends? You once bought me a meal.”
“Is that why you came? Because you’re hungry?”
Her face hardens, as if I’ve physically slapped her. “I’m fine, thank you,” she says. “I came because you seem like a nice person. I mean, the few minutes I spent with you were pleasant.”
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. Pleasant. She must’ve forgotten the
