“I heard you’re dating a blow-up doll. That screams abandonment. Are your parents still alive? Did you get dumped by your one true love? Did your family dog get hit by a car?” There’s a pregnant pause. No words. Not even a blink. It’s just me and Fitz’s unreadable expression. Finally, he blows out a slow breath and stares at his feet. “She’s not inflatable. Her name is Mrs. Wilke, after my parents’ old neighbor who touched me inappropriately the summer I turned fourteen. She invited me over to discuss payment for mowing her yard. She told me to sit on the sofa while she fetched her purse. When
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