The air is crisp as Thanksgiving approaches, leaves crunching underfoot on the way to class. Students bustle with plans to head home or celebrate with friends. My thoughts are elsewhere, swirling between gratitude and the knot of tension twisting tighter every time I think about Gabe's father.
Zulu leans back against her chair as we sit in the campus café. The warmth inside contrasts with the chill outside, the aroma of coffee and baked goods weaving through space. I push my cup around absently, not even sipping.
"You look distracted," Zulu remarks, her sharp brown eyes narrowing as she studies me.
I hesitate. Do I tell her? I hadn't planned to say anything, but the weight of everything feels like it's crushing me.
"It's Gabe," I murmur, barely louder than a whisper.
Her eyebrows lift. "Gabe? The guy you've been attached to at the hip lately?"
