never use that word again.
“I won’t,” she said. “I swear.”
A beat, then: “Are you coming for Easter?”
“Maybe,” I said. “We’ll see.”
Easter fell in late April. I drove to Fayetteville with a pecan pie, my grandmother’s recipe with the bourbon crust. I almost turned around twice, once on the highway and once in my parents’ driveway. I sat in the Civic for continue reading …
