What Is Happy Feet About Novels & Stories

A bright red handprint bloomed on his cheek. If this was what he wanted, I had no problem ripping off the last shred of his self-respect. He stormed out, slammed the door behind him, and drove off. He never came back. A little while later, my phone buzzed. Tiffany had stopped posting her usual suggestive updates on Facebook. This time, she sent me a direct message—with a picture attached. "Your husband sure knows how to make a woman happy." She was probably still in the hospital. In the photo, Zachary was sitting beside her, peeling an apple. In her hand was a slice of apple, shaped into a rabbit.