Dove
I prodded at my salad with my fork, barely paying attention. It was the watermelon-feta one Molly swore by — ruby-red cubes of watermelon, cold and sweet, tangled with thin, sharp ribbons of red onion. Crumbled feta sat on top like snow, and fresh mint leaves were torn over everything, so every bite smelled bright and clean. The balsamic glaze pooled at the bottom of the plate, dark and glossy. I dragged my fork through it, smiling to myself when I remembered Benecio's kiss from this morning.
It was Saturday morning. Somehow he'd convinced Mr. Billie to let him stay over for two days with the excuse that I needed help packing. My suitcases had been done for a few days and the boxes had been picked up yesterday afternoon, but Benecio's family seemed more than happy to have him out of the house anyway.
