“Want to talk about it?” Ollie asked her the next morning.
“I want to talk about why you’re at your parents house again,” Lark shot her friend a sideways glare as she drew a brush through the paint and returned it to the canvas in front of her. Her mother and sister had shoved her into the studio she had once used over the garage and told her not to come out until she was ready to talk about why she left the hospital without snapping someone’s head off.
“I’m not at their house, I’m at your parent’s house.” She grinned cheekily and tugged her ponytail. Taking in her friend’s angry scowl and the way she wiped a wayward tear off her cheek she sat on the edge of the stool and wrapped her arm around her. “Hey, Lark, come on. What did my fucker of a brother do to make you bail and cry into you
