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... barista’s “Sir, we’re closing” was polite, the kind of politeness you give someone who’s been broken in public. I didn’t argue. I let the door close behind me and the city chewed me up.
Streets I’d walked a thousand times felt new and hostile and harsh and senseless to me. Every step was a replay of how I’d been a coward, how Carmela had waltzed back into my life and I’d folded like a cheap suit. The what ifs came at me in several waves: if she’d never shown up, if I’d named Elodie a wee ...
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