CHAPTER 17
About an hour later, Camille unlocked her apartment door, coming in just as Meme was going out. Her grandmother was dressed for a night on the town in another tiny, hippie-ish tunic, dangly earrings, and a pair of platform sandals.
My platform sandals, Camille realized, tossing her house keys into their dish.
Meme frowned. “I thought you were gone for the night.”
“Plans changed.”
“Really? Why? You look terrible and you’ve been out with Why Not. You should be smiling.”
Terrible? Camille glanced at her reflection in the antique mirror she’d hung above her console table and blanched. She did look terrible: her hair had gone full Medusa-snakes thanks to the humidity and her eyes were red from crying.
Over Wyatt, she thought, shame warring with a fresh onslaught of tears. She
