But there were those moments when I heard a song, when someone mentioned a word, when I caught a smell, and my fingers dug into the steering wheel or the glass I was holding or into my palm. And no matter how much I hated him. No matter how much of a fool, or a coward, or an ass, or a child, or an idiot he was.

I loved him.

And, God, it might be the death of me.

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