CHAPTER 8 | Ellie
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It’s nine o’clock by the time I drag myself up the spiral staircase and into our apartment. I stand at the fridge for a few minutes trying to decide what to cook for dinner and then decide I don’t care. I’m too disappointed, too angry, and too tired.
Not so tired I can’t send another text to Parker asking her to call me. Maybe this time she will. I hope so. I face my fridge again.
“Bowl of cereal it is,” I mutter, but I don’t even make it that far because I hear a bump in our living room and my stomach squeezes. Wren’s still here.
I kick off my boots and pad down the tiny hallway to the equally tiny living room. Wren is obsessed with all things French. We have vintage wine posters and pocket-sized tables, chairs trimmed in gold paint and the prettiest Orient
