Darren’s face had gone slack in a way I’d only seen once before, when we were kids and he broke the garage window and heard Dad’s truck pull into the driveway.
“Eastbridge,” he said.
That was the whisper.
Not congratulations. Not shock.
Eastbridge.
I looked at him.
His beer was still in his hand. Tilted just enough that foam slid over the rim and down his continue reading …
