She never needed to finish the sentence, because we both know the unspoken words that were meant to follow next. Until you met her.

Maybe that was why Connie and I shared such an instant connection; her home life was just as unconventional as my own.

One particular January morning Claire poured me out a glass of orange juice and practically begged me to join her in the kitchen before she headed off to work. I sat down next to her, listened as she began to chat away munching on a slice of plain toast. Breakfast was always a simple affair in our house since neither of us actually enjoyed the art of cooking—a bowl of cereal, a slice of bread. I liked it that way. Fancy breakfasts always felt so falsely pretentious to me. Something for my friends; not something for the likes of us. And my mind wandered as she chatted on about Lisa Gable having an affair with the man that owned Dress for Less, as I tended to do. It felt like every single time she had news to tell me it revolved around Lisa Gable and the legs she couldn’t close. I could never understand how Molly put up with her mother throwing herself at every man she crossed like some kind of wanton harlot. I knew that they weren’t rumors or idle, sly, gossip when I had seen the woman in action; sliding up next to Principal Murphy when the four of us were meant to get suspended for some stupid prank Molly enacted that I have long since forgotten, caressing his forearm when our parents were called to collect us and batting her eyelashes at him. She managed to get us out of trouble that day, thank Christ, but it was easy to be grateful when it wasn’t your own mother in question. When Aidan called Mrs. Gable the town bicycle to Molly’s face she hadn’t even batted an eyelid, merely shrugged in agreeance. The woman held some sort of unfathomable power over men, but I figured I could understand why. Her fiery red hair stood out from a mile away, and the way her hips swayed when she walked was simply mesmerizing. Of course, I hadn’t exactly seen her in months, weaseling my way out of all social obligations that required me to visit the Gable home. Not after last time, when Connie had pinched my thigh under the dining table because everyone could see how blatantly obvious it was that I was gawking at her massive—

“Alex? Alex are you listening?” Claire said abruptly, snapping me from my thoughts.

“Wha—I—Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Gable. Dress for Less.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was asking how school is going so far this year.” Sometimes I was struck by how similar we looked. Her hair was longer than mine, and tidier, and her skin was a little more tanned—but there was no denying the similarities in our eyes.

“Oh. Well. I mean—you know—it’s TY, so—”