I paced from one end of the bazooka couch to the other in Frankie’s living room. I stopped when his car turned into his driveway. Somewhere in the hours he’d been gone, my anger dwindled into acceptance. I didn’t like what he’d done, but I understand it.

Kind of.

A little.

Life was harsh and reality was even worse.

But just accepting it didn’t mean I had to like it.

I was also pretty sure that the conflicting ideals ...