I’m placing the pitcher on the ground when she goes to stand. She seems to overestimate her sobriety, and she stumbles forward. I jump to my feet and wrap an arm around her to stop her from falling over. “You good?” She leans into me and shuts her eyes. “I’ll answer once the world stops spinning.” I take the opportunity to get a good look at her. Even with tangled hair, a sickly tinge to her skin, and smeared eye makeup, I still can’t take my eyes off her. “I can feel you staring at me,” she says without ever opening her eyes. I deflect in an act of self-preservation. “Your mascara is
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