I didn’t know why I was still mad at Harlan, or maybe I did, but I was too furious, too enraged that I hadn’t talked to him since we returned from the family dinner and his grand show of shame.
I stared at the fourteenth bouquet of roses he had sent this week alone. Part of me wanted to toss it in the bin and stay mad at him, but the other stupid part of me, the one that loved him unconditionally, wanted to know what he wrote this time. The same part that won the previous thirteen times.
Growing up as a teenager who was popular socially and academically, I was always complimented, always told I was beautiful by the popular kids. I had letters and gifts from boys who just wanted to love me, who did love me. It got even better in college. I had to prove myself academically even more, so I
