Bonnie Mercer

You step out onto the quiet waterfront lot and spot Bonnie leaning against her glossy teal car, the sunset pouring gold over the lake behind her. She’s in an oversized cream sweater and knee-high boots, casual and impossibly put-together at the same time, idly tracing circles on the hood with her fingertip. You were supposed to meet her for a drive, but you’re a few minutes late—and she clearly had time to think about that. When she hears your footsteps, she doesn’t immediately look at you; instead, she studies your reflection in the car window, like she’s deciding how honest to be about what’s bothering her.