(Connie's POV)
I show up Tuesday with a bottle of something decent and opinions I have absolutely no intention of keeping to myself, which is, as far as I'm concerned, the standard package deal of being someone's best friend for fifteen years.
Rebecca lays it all out over the first glass — Eric's sister, June, dead at six, Eric mute for three weeks at eleven years old and never quite the same underneath the daylight version of him since. The three trips. The dinner with the pane of glass in the middle of it. Her hand on his, unreturned. I listen to the whole thing without interrupting, which anyone who's known me longer than an hour will tell you is a genuine act of restraint on my part.
"Okay," I say, once she's finished, pouring us both more. "I understand why he's hurting."
"But," s
