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Summary
Teresa tells him one night. “He isn’t Charlotte.”
Jane sticks his hands in his pocket, they twitch for a cigarette. “I know.” He says. “I just-“
She wraps her arms around him because she understands. Because she always understands. Because it’s Lisbon, Teresa, his wife. “I know honey.” She whispers softly, kisses his rugged cheek.
He buries his face in the crook of her neck and cries.
