Waking up in my childhood bed is a strange enough experience. But hearing the distant clatter of my father down the hall, starting the morning coffee? It’s almost like I’ve gone back in time.
Actually, I’ve come home, but only for a few days. I got in late last night and surprised my father. The look on his face when he answered the doorbell to find me on the stoop was sweeter than any pastry I could whip up.
I check my phone. Almost eight a.m. I wonder if Grant’s already at practice.
I wonder if Grant’s already at practice.Reminding myself that I don’t need to be thinking about Grant right now, I toss my phone aside. I snuggle briefly under the worn covers, willing myself back to a time when boy troubles only went as far as Corey Sullivan in the tenth grade. To a time before I found ou
