Bentley
I was on my third cigarette when Hillary found me.
“I was looking everywhere for you,” she says, eyeing the stick between my lips.
She doesn’t like it.
I take it out and crush it against the bench I’m sitting on, then fling the stub away.
I don’t even know why I give a s**t what she thinks of me.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says.
“I’m not hungry,” I respond, because I’m truly not.
“Jake and Jackie aren’t going to be there if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says, rubbing her arms against the chill.
“I’m not hungry,” I repeat.
She turns around and leaves.
After a few minutes, I hop off the bench and head back inside. I stop by the trash can near the porch, throw in the rest of the cigarette pack and the lighter.
They’re still at dinner when I walk in—everyone except Vane
