“All I remember is my dad shouting, “oh, hell,” and then the next minute it was raining down old-fashioned glass Christmas lights and Playboy magazines.” I watch as her blue eyes go wide and her cheeks, even with the glare of the lights we’ve set, turn pink. She’s biting down so hard on her lower lip that I’m surprised she doesn’t draw blood. “Jackson,” she manages to work out in between gusts of laughter, “oh, my God.” “Trust me,” I mutter, enjoying her joy way too much for my own good, “God wouldn’t have wanted any part of that scene. I don’t know which one of us was more embarrassed—my dad
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