The way Peggy saw it, everyone sort of got one . . . one thing that they were allowed to make trouble over. Something that other people had to deal with or accommodate or politely ignore. The problem was, with her, she . . . who she was . . . that was already the thing. Which meant now, she was not only her—someone she already secretly worried she might have made up in her head, and yet was the only version of herself that fit—but also someone who messed up, made bad kissing decisions, and couldn’t make other decisions. Someone, in other words, who hurt in horrible ways the very people she
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