Stella

I don’t want to be here.

The mall is loud, overstimulating—fluorescent lights buzzing above glossy tiles, the scent of cinnamon pretzels and cologne clashing in the air. But Vivian insisted. Dragged me here with a tight grip on my wrist and that “don’t even try me” glare.

“I’m not letting you sulk in that tomb of a house again,” she said. “Retail therapy or death, Stell.”

So here we are.

Nikolai joined us somewhere between the parking lot and the food court. ...