“Yes, please.” I smiled wider. There was only water inside. No more alcohol for my former demon.
Oliver wasn’t happy or settled or certain of himself, but he was working toward it. Each day, he struggled to understand mortality a bit more—to sort out what he wanted from this new life of his.
And so was I. So were most of us, I supposed. We waddled through life blindly, hoping to find something—and someone—worth fighting for. I had found it; I had lost it; I would find it again.
I took a gulp of icy water from the flask (to a few horrified stares of passersby—I winked at them), when Laure’s voice trilled out, “Miss Fitt! Je suis ici!”
I twisted back toward the busy street, and my eyes landed on Laure’s face. She waved excitedly from the window of a hired cab.
And I grinned at her. A wide, absolutely genuine grin.
Miss Fitt. It was who I was, and it was who I hoped I would always be.
Miss Fitt. Misfit. Forever.