“Enola, I”—my heart flips the way it did that night outside the beach house—“I do love you.” But after he says the words I have waited to hear for two years, he swallows and puts his fist to his mouth, grimacing in a way that implies it was last night’s alcohol he just regurgitated. I turn back to the books. “Did you hear me?” he says, voice croakier from the stomach acid. It’s strange, but I always assumed it would feel like a victory when he said those words to me, like his love was a trophy I could win by running faster than everyone else. But now that he has said them, they sound
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