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Tanner Bailey is crying. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I try to tamp down my anger at whoever touched my girl. She had been borderline hysterical in the club and had insisted that I take her home. All plans of a romantic night at a NOLA hotel have vanished, and now we’re retracing our steps back to Hahnville. I glance over at Bailey, who’s curled up in the passenger seat. “You okay?” I ask for probably the hundredth time. “I’m fine,” she responds faintly. We both know that’s a lie, but I don’t call her on it. “I’m sorry I ruined our night.” “You didn’t ruin anything,” I tell her firmly. “That guy should never have f*****g touched you. You didn’t do anything wrong. He did.” She doesn’t reply. She simply turns her head to the window, her eyes straying to the glass and the d