It has to be, because I sometimes have it. Tristan was in Laurel’s backyard, having just constructed half of an outdoor wedding canopy, a raised stage with four wooden poles. The door bell rang nonstop with deliveries of all the wedding stuff Laurel had ordered from various online sites. I was in charge of signing for everything and texting her what had arrived. Shadow was watching Tristan work when I stomped outside, annoyed that all the fuss was about her and not me. “You’d think she could have waited until she returned,” I said, wanting Tristan to agree. “She wants it all set up when they arrive, and for the guests, too,” he said, as if it was a smart decision on her part. “Are we her minions?” I asked. He took the nail from between his lips and held it like a cigarette. “I’m getting paid, luv. And, well, you’re one of her best friends,” he said. “Tristan, feel free to not respond to everything I say,”
