“So, you’re a painter?” I asked. “We didn’t really get to talk much about that at the party. Ya know, because I was a jackass.” Cyrus crossed his arms and leaned over the table. “You keep dwelling on that bit. I told you it’s fine.” I huffed and shook my head. “It isn’t, though. I saw the look on your face, Cyrus. My reaction hurt you.” I crossed my arms and leaned back against the vinyl of the booth, my eyes fixed on a family of harpies at the rotating bar. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look at Cyrus. Maybe it was embarrassment over my behavior at the party. Maybe it was because
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