“You know how many women would have been grateful to be in your shoes?” he asks. I’m not sure how I keep from gagging. “Sounds like you shouldn’t have a hard time finding someone else, then.” “I liked you. I really did, to the point where I was willing to look past your particular…quirks.” His gaze is as demeaning as his words, but I act like they bounce off the white two-piece set I borrowed from my sister, even though that isn’t the case. Judgy gazes or comments like his are why I started dressing like I do now. Because my closet and the clothes I wear reflect who I am at my core, and I’m
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