We don’t wave anymore.
We don’t smile.
We simply leave each other alone.
After everything that happened, I consider that an improvement.
And whenever I remember Denise standing on my porch in her bathrobe, screaming that she was going to destroy me because somebody had painted her car, I still have to fight the urge to smile.
Because for almost a year, I believed Denise could keep tormenting me as long as she was careful enough to leave no evidence behind.
In the end, I wasn’t the one who caught her.
Her own sister was.
