“I’m not good at this,” she whispered. “At being wanted. At wanting back.”
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He smiled. He had a face that had been handsome once and was now merely interesting: deep creases around the eyes, a jaw that still held its shape, hair the color of wet sand. He was perhaps sixty, dressed in a worn tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows—the kind of jacket a man wears because he loves it, not because it’s fashionable. “I’m not good at this,” she whispered