Pretending to Be Erica

My heart spasms. “You can’t like me.”
“Too late.”

“Ah, fake grass and arrogance. My favorite smells. Oh, and a hint of—could it be—Botox?” A group of overtanned women in golf gear rivet their heads toward her at the word. Taylor waves. “Afternoon, ladies.”

Violet, drowned in tears that aren’t hers, puts it together.