End Game
Not because I don’t think it’s fitting, but because I know how Quinn grew up in a small town, and how I watched them, an outsider looking in, and thought the Dawsons were fucking perfect.
I press one hand against the cool glass, staring at Lake Michigan until my vision goes blurry. Recalling everything I said in the last half hour, I don’t have any regrets, which is a first.
“I think that went well,” I tell Neville, crouching down to pet the fat orange cat. “Better than I expected.”