Good god, this woman is infuriating. I should tell her, just spit it out. But I’ve had it go south before. First, I had foster parents who made contact, which was borderline heartwarming until they asked for money. And the last time I was brave enough to tell a friend, it became a running joke I had to grin and bear. It niggled at me—embarrassed me. And I don’t trust Tabitha not to take this little tidbit and use it to hit me where it hurts. Not telling her just feels like self-preservation at this point. So instead, I grip her waist with both my hands and flip us again. Now it’s my turn to
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