By the time dinner was over, Val was back to herself again.
It was strange. Not the fact that she bounced back—she always did that, in her own dramatic, impossible way—but how fast she did it.
In the afternoon, she had looked like she might cry. Even when we got home, her eyes were quieter than usual, her shoulders a little slumped. I didn't push her, didn't ask, because I knew if she wanted to talk about Marina she would.
But then, sometime between her complaining about the rice I cooked being too plain and threatening to "marry the delivery guy if he brought sushi," she brightened. Like someone had flipped a switch inside her.
Now she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, my notebook in her lap, humming some nonsense tune under her breath while her pen scratched against the page. Duchess was curled up next to her like she'd been bribed into joining the performance.
