“Whoa.” Nash looks at me quizzically, his head bent toward one shoulder. I get it, Nash. I’m weird. His face crumples into a squint. “You do?” “Do what?” “That thing with the Lucky Charms. Separating the marshmallows from the oats.” “Oh, yes. Every night for a snack. Did you know there are 287 marshmallows in every box? I haven’t actually counted myself, but I looked it up.” Nash shifts his weight and stuffs both hands in his pockets. The perfect fit of his jeans notwithstanding, I’ve never seen a man look more uncomfortable. “I eat the cereal part and leave the marshmallows,” he says. I gape
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