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    Summary

    Trinity wouldn’t want to talk about it. He knew that. She never wanted to talk about anything. Sometimes he could ease her into it, both of them dipping their toes in that endless sea of their messy memories that formed a pool between them. But she always jerked them back out, afraid of drowning. Dennis…he felt like he was ankle deep in it all the time. Just wading through, sometimes sinking, sometimes having a day or two of dry feet before dipping back into the dark water.
    But he heard Garcia’s offhand comment. Casual. Trinity deserved so much more than casual. Especially since Garcia seemed to be the only thing that had brought her some semblance of joy in the ten months he’d been living with her. Garcia was…well. She was a word Dennis didn’t like to use. He’d had four brothers, but the eldest Whitaker child was a girl, and to call her the b-word would earn any of the boys a night in the barn. But that didn’t change the fact that he kinda thought that Garcia was one.
    --
    whitsantos bestfriend(?)ism

    Language:
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