“It’s still okay.”
She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“I’m sitting on my kitchen floor.”
“Why?”
“Because I dropped a wineglass, and somehow sitting down seemed easier than cleaning it up.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Don’t move.”
“Alex—”
“I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
I was already pulling on my jeans.
When I arrived twenty minutes later, every downstairs light was on.
Karen was sitting exactly where she’d said she would be, on the kitchen floor beside broken glass.
She wore gray sweatpants and one of Daniel’s old college shirts.
Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes.
For the first time since I’d known her, she didn’t look composed.
She looked human.
I grabbed the broom.
“Don’t.”
I watched her sweep up the glass.
“I can clean up my own mess.”
“I know.”
