His friends are my friends his mother and his favorite sister, Rachel, sometimes call just to talk to me. If anything, we’ve become closer, our lives interwoven. It’s not that I think we’ve fallen out of love. I shouldn’t go around weighing every comment he makes-or noticing the ones he doesn’t make anymore. I guess he’s gotten less romantic the last few months. For the first year or so that we were together, he made a point of noticing details like that. It shouldn’t bug me that he didn’t mention anything about how I was wearing a similar red dress the night we met. He was momentarily complimentary about my hair and my slinky red cocktail dress before he went back to grousing about the wedding. It’ll probably wilt the second I get out of the car, but at least Jack got to appreciate it. It took me almost an hour and a half a can of Aussie Freeze Spray to get my straight, bra-clasp-length brown hair looking this supermodelish. I adjust the full-blast passenger’s-side vent to blow in the vicinity of my navel, lest it muss my fancy upswept do. The midday sun is glaring overhead and heat radiates in waves off the asphalt, along with toxic black exhaust fumes. That’s my live-in boyfriend, Jack, grumbling as he gazes bleakly through the windshield of our rented subcompact car at the holiday-traffic-clogged Jersey Turnpike. Cripes, Tracey, I can’t believe this is how we’re spending the last Saturday of the summer.
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