i

“Tell the last part again!”

My eyes involuntarily roll as I bring the cigarette between my fingers to my lips. “Oh, my god, Marilyn, how many times have I told you?”

Josh chuckles, leaning back in the bean bag chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Should I tell it instead?”

I wave my hand. “Be my guest.”

“No, Ana tells it better!” Marilyn pouts, swirling around the couple fingers of brandy in her tumbler, and she tucks her leg beneath her as she resituates herself in another bean bag chair. “Please? It can be your Christmas present to me?”

I flick amused eyes from Lucas’ scrutinizing gaze to Marilyn’s and back, and they stare earnestly in return. They really don’t know what they’re asking for — that they shouldn’t be so excited. It’s not an orderly story with a compact plot; it’s not a cute bouquet of flowers. Surprises and secrets lurk at every corner.

But who am I to judge their haste to plunge into the lightning sand? After all, my story is nothing more than another heart-wrenching tale of love. Perhaps this simple story suits them.

I draw in a shaky breath, rewinding the tapes in my mind. “Well then.”