Third Wheel
“Your line at the beginning of each post no longer stated, ‘John is out tonight,’ or ‘John is working at the bar tonight, so I’ll write to my internet friends.’”
Jackson holds me at arm’s length. “So, Kennedy reached out to you. She sent you a birthday card with our email address.” He smiles. “And you know the rest.”
“I’m a...” I fan my face, trying to collect myself. Tears flow like rivers toward my chin. “I’m a terrible friend,” I declare.
“No.” Jackson hugs me to his chest again. “No, you aren’t.”
“I don’t send birthday cards, and I never call,” I state.