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It's late, it's a party, Chappell Roan is playing, and Maxine can't stop staring at Charlie's glossy lips.
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George cursed.
Shit, fuck, dammit, shit. Everything that came to mind was a curse, or a word spat like a curse. It was all fucked up–no, he fucked up. There was nothing for Russell to hide behind, not his pride, not his dignity, not his nonexistent relationship with him. All because of the positive pregnancy test shaking in his hand.
