K.L. Walther

“Nice try, baby.”

“Oranges,” I murmured.

“My shampoo,” Wit murmured back.

“I love oranges.”

“So you love me.”

She and her wife

“Stephen?”
“Stephen.”
I’d pretended to consider before launching a tickle attack.
Sarah had introduced us to Taylor Swift’s early albums that summer

“Please, I need you. You know how much I need you. After everything…”

“You’re still my favorite girl to have on my arm.”

But just like the sea air, there was nothing like the wind whipping through your hair as the island came into view.

“I didn’t want you to come,”

“I didn’t want you to come,”

“I wanted my boyfriend—my boyfriend—to come, not my shithead ex!”