By the time it was almost six-thirty, Gretchen’s house had settled into that strange, overfull calm that came right before everybody scattered.
Ben had come back an hour ago with three bulging McDonald’s bags and four drink carriers of Coke, like fast food and sugar might somehow smooth out the porn disaster, the pregnancy reveal, Harry and Quinn’s fight, the entire week from hell. It hadn’t fixed anything, obviously. But it had helped. A little. Enough for the house to stop feeling like it