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It’s a speakeasy with a secret entrance disguised like a seventies accountant’s office, but the inside is all lush maroon velvet, bizarre and fascinating artwork, and a bright, hedonistic mural of people lounging around naked in nature.
“What about my parents?” His jaw tenses like he’s upset. “What about you?”
I pull the navy and white jersey out of the box, turning it to read the back. STREICHER is stitched in bold white lettering, and my body hums with something pleased, proud, and possessive. “You don’t have to wear my name on your back,” he says quietly, watching me carefully. “We can take that part off.” “Don’t you dare.”
Oh, yeah. She’s getting a ring. A big one. Loud and flashy. Disgustingly over-the-top. She’ll hate it, I’m sure, but I want people seeing it from a mile away. From space.