Disappearing. Not responding to texts. Telling me he was working late. Enough was enough. That mini-devil stabbed me in the shoulder with the pitchfork. Told you, Cooper. Everything is falling to shit. You’ll never impress the New York Times reporter now. Not with Zach and his disappearing acts messing with your head. Clementine’s No Crap Café will be history this time next year. You’ll be walking into a day spa in this location. The mini-angel pointed a finger at the devil. Shut it, you. Whatever Zach is going through, they’ll get through it. But right now, go work on your rustic-vegetable potpie. Now, she screamed in my ear. Huh. Angel was getting quite the temper. The next morning I was at my friend Alexander’s house, helping him bake the one hundred cupcakes he’d volunteered to make for the fund-raiser for the middle school of his “little brother.” If you looked up good guy in the dictionary, you’d find a picture and description of Alexander Orr. Every week he hung out with twelve-year-old Jesse, an only child with divorced parents, went to all the kid’s school events that his mother (his dad was out of the picture) couldn’t attend because of work.
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