When I arrived back at the house in the morning, Courtney was wallowing in misery. “Ugh, this is your fault,” she said to me, her face half buried in the crook of her arm on the breakfast table.
Round two came after I was properly dressed–by rock musician standards, I mean–and the scent of coffee from downstairs became too strong to resist. It was chilly, so I put my leather jacket on over my flannel shirt. “I’ll go first,” Ziggy suggested.