Meanwhile, in another room, far from this heat, Saya smashed the power button so hard the remote bounced off the coffee table and skittered across the floor.
Screen dead, the living room was swallowed by darkness, only the red glow of the microwave clock showing 22:17.
From the bedroom, Roam's snores rumbled on, like a chainsaw drowning in mud.
She sat frozen on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, heart punching her ribs so hard her teeth chattered.
That wasn't Nash.
The guy on the replay, the one turning the Baby-Boom girls into a highlight reel of humiliation, that wasn't the skinny ghost she'd thrown away like trash.
Her Nash had been 164 cm of awkward angles, bony shoulders, and a dick that needed surgery.
He'd missed all the hints she had showed him, not like she would have let him hit anyway, and he used to apologize for accidentally touching her, or asking permission to touch her tits like she might say no.
That was Nash, her Nash.
Not this.
