You’re like, thirty-five, had much longer to grow accustomed to your role.” His expression clouds. “I’m not thirty-five, Serena.” I flush and scan his sculpted, complicated face. He doesn’t look old, just like he’s been through shit. “It’s the whole”—I lift my hand to his face, gently stroking his beard—“um, facial hair and stuff. Ages you. I could trim your hair, it’d take me ten minutes, tops. I used to do it for Misery—” “I’m thirty-six. Even more decrepit than you thought.”
Im cackling
