Effexor.
All through the drive to work, I can’t get that bottle with its small peach-colored pills out of my mind. If Aaron is sick, why doesn’t he tell me? I mean, s**t, we’re dating. He’s my f*****g boyfriend, for Christ’s sake. We’ve been together two years now and he tells me everything. At least, I thought he did.
Maybe he’s going to tell you, I think. He just hasn’t had a chance yet.
But the date on those pills was almost a month ago, so what the hell is he waiting for?
I should’ve asked him when I found them, but he’ll think I was going through his stuff, which I wasn’t, not really. He’ll think I’m being possessive or nosy and he’ll get mad, and I don’t want that. We don’t get much time together as it is—his job has the worst hours, this week on daylight, next week on afternoon
