He had done them both a favor. She saw this now, evidenced by the pang of guilt she’d felt the other day. She’d been waiting for something to happen, waiting since the day they married, since she’d branded love like one of her accounts, slapped it with an identity, an easily recognizable logo. She’d been waiting for someone to come along and break it open, let the yoke ooze in directions unknown because that mess was where she was, all over the place. That mess was who she was, neither here nor there, and she’d been waiting for someone to free her from the neatly assigned category where she
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