“Why’d you decide to take up running again?” Row asked when we were going up the stairs to the second floor (his butt was twelve out of ten, by the way). “My dad bullied me into it. Made it his last wish. Can you believe it?” I grumbled. “Guilt-tripping me beyond the grave. That’s some next-level helicopter parent shit.” Row made a hmm sound. He didn’t know what had happened to me that day. Even Dylan wasn’t privy to the entire story. “What’s so terrible about running?” “I kind of have PTSD.” We ambled along the colossal hallway of the second floor, where he showed me the nursery, the guest
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