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40. Weston

I’m up too early the next morning because of the sun arcing through my curtains. Growling, I peel myself off the couch and go hunting for some instant coffee, since I can’t make any with my missing coffee machine.

But, along with beer and pretzels, I’m out of that, too. I sigh and throw on shoes so I can go get a cup from the café on the corner.

When I pull the front door open, though, I notice a basket on the ground. Obviously, it’s meant for Sutton or Jackass and it just got put in the wrong place. I’m not the kind of guy who gets sent gift baskets.

There’s a card on top, though—and it has my name.

Weston—For the next time you’re alone in the dark.

The basket is full of artisan hot chocolate and a package of mini marshmallows, with a soft suede blanket folded underneath.

I stand there for a long time with the card in my hand.

It’s been years since I thought about those nights with my old man and the hot chocolate. Years since I’ve told anyone anything personal like that.

I forgot how much those memories mean to me. And I sure as fuck didn’t anticipate how good it would feel to share those memories with anyone.

Especially not with her.

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