“I’ve spent so much time running that I don’t remember why I’m living.” Again, I turn my head over my shoulder to look at him. His jaw is shadowed with a beard, aging him just as deliciously as whiskey. “Do you remember why you’re living?” It takes him several moments to answer. “Even as a kid, I was angry at the world, and I was always told that I’d waste my life away if I settled into that anger. Of course, I didn’t care. And until recently, I stayed firm in that way of thinking. I didn’t care about life when I felt so goddamn worthless to the one who was supposed to love me most. Then you
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