The next morning my eyes blink open too early and feel as if they are being massaged with medium grit sandpaper. The clock reads eight and I groan at it.
But the sky outside my window is still dark. Another storm must be rolling in. I feel like my conversation with Eli was cut off last night and the only good idea I have is to head over to his house to wake him up and finish where we left off.
I dress quickly, trying not to obsess as I run my fingers through my hair to separate the curls.
Easing the door open I glance down the hallway toward the kitchen. Kyle’s door is still shut and I think I hear the faint rumble of snores drifting under his door. There is silence from the kitchen, which is a good sign. Pops is a morning whistler.
The door onto the si...
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