Kate opens the door and reveals a delivery guy laden with food. And I mean laden; he's got like three bags in each hand, each one adorned with the logo of my go-to takeout spot. What the hell? “Uh,” Kate gapes at the sheer volume of food, “I think you have the wrong address?” With an entirely unnecessary eye roll, the delivery guy glances at the receipt and recites our address in a bored tone. “That's us, but we didn't order anything.” “It's for a..." He squints at the lengthy piece of paper. “Querida?” Shrugging, he regards us with a blank, unbothered expression. “Everything’s paid for. You
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