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The kind who spies on blondes in cafés and reads into door latches and unanswered texts and suddenly decides her whole marriage is built on lies. One stupid, alcohol-softened, heat-of-the-moment kiss that tore the thread clean off the sweater. The ones where people chain up their dogs in the blazing sun and walk away like they weren’t once posting Boomerangs of them with heart-eye emojis. His parents are somehow still in love after thirty-seven years, retired, and currently RVing across the Pacific Northwest.