Skylar
I tap my nails against the marble table as the café hums around me, pretending like I don't care that Katherine is late. The little bell above the door jingles, and when I look up, there she is. My stomach knots.
She hasn't changed much. She has the same neat bob, same careful posture, same air of self-assurance that makes me feel like a messy sketch beside her finished painting.
"Katherine," I say, pushing up from my chair. My voice comes out too bright, too eager. I hate that I sound like I'm begging before we even begin.
She stops a step short of the table. "Skylar." Her tone is neutral. It's not hostile, but not warm either. She sits down across from me, sets her purse neatly on the seat beside her, and folds her hands. Everything about her screams controlled. My palms sweat just watching her.
I smile because that's what I do. Pretend I'm unbothered, pretend I'm the tough one. The waiter drops off coffee. I take mine in both hands like it's a lifeline.
