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  • michellecookwriter


Nine stories below, the rain-splattered pavement whips up to meet me.

I wish it would. Save me the jump. What patterns will my blood paint in the puddles, glistening black in the fairy lights? I’ve lied to everyone, myself included. My boss's daughter became my wife. Too late to be who I am.

Without warning, there’s a hand in mine. His fingertips trace my stubbled jaw. “Both of us jump. Or neither.”

Tears won’t stop. I lean into him, feel his heart. He smells of ginger.

“Neither.” His voice is whispered silk. He kisses my head. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

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