#shelldoanythingtogetfamous

            I spent an entire week not doing much of anything except laying in the bed in the spare bedroom at Lexie’s house and looking at the ceiling. In case you’re wondering (and you’re probably not) there were 132 foot-by-foot square ceiling tiles in that room.

            For the most part Lexie and her family had left me alone to grieve. When I didn’t go downstairs to eat somebody would bring up a tray with food on it and leave it on my dresser. They didn’t ask me how I was feeling and they didn’t pry on what I was thinking, which I was thankful for.

            I was laying on my back on my bed, twirling my sunglasses around by the arm haphazardly when my door opened.

            Lexie watched me from the doorway, her arms crossed and a brow quirked in a question. She must’ve determined that she’d given me enough space because she asked, “When was the last time you left this room?”

            “Twenty minutes ago,” I answered. “I have to pee sometime.”

            The look she gave me showed that she didn’t approve of the answer I’d given her. She scowled and threw a towel at my face. “Go take a shower. You’re starting to smell like that homeless guy that lives under the West Street Bridge.”

            “Sammy is a good guy!”