ere he was. Ethan Lester, sitting on my mom's floral sofa as if he belong
worried sick about me,
s just telling us about his trip. It's so good of
aced by that familiar, cold intensity. He stood u
ooth as silk, but his eyes were bu
ar the doorway. He leaned in close, h
a very stupid thin
made her famous casserole. Ethan, the man who I knew was a notorious germophobe and only ate
th his fork and took a piece of casserole directly from my plate. My mom cooed about how
ed a peak. My mom, oblivious, had
uch," I told him, once m
ised. He followed me as I walked to
to talk,"
ing to push past him. "You're getting married. Yo
me, a strange look on his face. It
repeated slowly. "What
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