4. “Stop policing me,” I said, later that night about something else. “You keep saying that. What does that even mean?” And God heard my eyes roll.
5. Panama City. Cori flew down from Nashville to meet me there. “I need my best friend right now,” I said to her without crying. She was crying as she unpacked her stuff. “Fuck men,” she said, slipping a tank top strip of black lace through her fingers. Slip, slip. We left the balcony door open, the TV turned up; the meteorologists on The Weather Channel were talking to us while we did each other’s eye makeup.
7. We sat on the balcony and shared a bottle of red wine; cool ocean mist-spit on our cheeks. No crying, just cigarettes. We walked half-drunk to the bar downstairs. Dominic called but I didn’t answer. I sent him a picture of the pack of cigarettes on the wooden table and the palm of my hand turned upwards like I was waiting for something. Or like I was dying. Or like I was dead.