I’d had the whole game to rethink my strategy, and I had to talk to him. Maybe I’d gone about this all wrong. I should just explain to him why I needed this. That I was scared of Trent and the life my father imagined for me, already barreling toward me at top speed. But being vulnerable like that had never come easy. When I thought about lying my heart bare, I was once again that seven-year-old, my hand in a box of cereal, hidden in the pantry, listening to the person I loved tell the world how stupid I was. Trusting. Naïve. Delusional. After the game, I got a message from an unknown number.
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