I knew that smile.
Or at least, I thought I did.
I had spent twelve years looking at Mark’s face across kitchen tables and in grocery-store aisles, from the passenger seat of the car, half-awake beside him in bed, standing behind him while he shaved. I had believed that knowing someone’s face meant knowing what their expressions meant.
And now I was looking at an expression that felt both familiar and completely unknown.
The woman beside him had one hand resting on his wrist.
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