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Easton texted me when he got home, but then his messages became . . . sparse. He said we’d talk when I got home from Paris, that he didn’t want to bother me during my trip, but something felt off.

My phone buzzes, and I jerk upright, reaching for it. Easton’s face grins back at me from the screen. It’s a picture I took of him when we were eating gelato in Montmartre