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“You just need to wait.”
It was 11:30 am in an underground food court next to the Orange Line in Boston. James and I were scarfing down stir fry — him because he was hungry, me because I was trying not to cry.
It would be so embarrassing to cry in front of James Parker. I had loved his writing for over a year and finally worked up the courage to ask him to lunch for some brief professional advice. But it was on the verge of becoming a therapy session.
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