Now it’s Friday morning, and I’m on my hands and knees, yanking out the dandelions by my office building’s front door and imagining they’re all Olu’s tongue—the same tongue that tried to let me down gently before losing patience. Ever since he left, his words have been ringing louder and louder in my ears. I would’ve given him anything. I put my heart and my world and my entire fucking self on the table, and he said, “I don’t want you to.” I almost wish he’d said what he really meant: “I don’t want you, Griffin. I came here to escape something, and you helped, Griffin. But did you really think
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