I don’t know what time it is, or how long I’ve been asleep. Then I realize I’m on the couch, it’s still dark and raining outside—and as the recollection of Kennedy not showing for dinner hits me like a sharp jab below the ribs, the knowledge of what woke me up breaks through my foggy brain. It was a knock on the door. I walk to the door and open it, just in time to catch a petite blonde going down the steps. “Kennedy?” She stops on the sidewalk and slowly turns to face me. She’s soaked through—her jeans molded to the curves of her legs, the sleeves of her white and navy striped sweater dripping, her hair flat, lips slightly tinged with blue. “I wasn’t going to come,” she says. My voice is drowsy and deep. “Yeah, I kind of figured that when you didn’t show up.” I open the door wider. “Come inside.” Instead, Miss Vinegar to my Mr. Water takes a step back. “I don’t know why I’m here.” And she sounds genuinely bewildered—even a little panicked. “Obviously because I’m irresistible.”
