No More Leftovers For Me

Two years ago, my best friend Cheryl suddenly packed her bags and moved across the country, leaving a sticky note on my bathroom mirror:

“Wren, eat up. Don’t be a picky eater!”

I didn't understand her words back then. But when I heard she was finally returning to Creek Cove, I was ecstatic.

I went downstairs to throw out the trash, only to spot Cheryl already back in our apartment complex.

Standing right in front of her was my fiancé, Brody, who had told me he was at the gym.

He was holding her hand, guiding her fingers over the hard, defined lines of his abs. His voice was low, gravelly.