I used to watch my best friend disappear a little more every time he texted.
Her name was Jenna. Twenty-four, sharp as hell, the kind of girl who could talk her way out of a speeding ticket and still leave the cop smiling.
But the second that guy’s name lit up her phone, she turned into someone I barely recognized.
His name was Tyler.
Worked construction, lived two towns over, had a permanent half-smirk and a habit of going quiet for three days after any night that actually meant something to her.
He would cancel plans last minute, forget her birthday, then show up at 1 a.m. with a six-pack and that same lazy grin. And every single time, she let him in.
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