“I just don’t want to live in Boise. Does that make me such a terrible person?”
August was whipping along. Clark’s September report date loomed huge, casting every conversation, every afternoon in the park, every romp across Clark’s gigantic bed into shadow. Tanner was two cups in at the Sunday beer bust, soaking up the shade on the back patio with Jesse and Willis, eager to get the day’s whining about it out of the way before Clark arrived. His flight hadn’t landed until three, but it was four-thirty; he was liable to stroll up at any moment, and Tanner hoped to pass an argument-free afternoon. If such an animal still existed.
“It does not make you a terrible person,” Willis assured him.
“Although it’s a strike against you in the husband department,” Jesse apparently couldn’t resist sa
