“No, Lane. Not the shorts. Laughing with my family, taking walks arm in arm with my mother towards her place of solitude, singing along to my father’s old folk music, the looks—” He stops himself. “The looks across the campfire that almost made me walk straight through it.” I hear him rub his face and breathe through his palms. “Sorry. I’ll stop. I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t think it would be this hard.” “I didn’t either,” he says, almost whimpering. “If you want, I can leave tomorrow. You can drive me to the closest car rental place, and I can go to the wedding. You can stay and
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