It was all I could say, but no poet could have argued there was a better word to encompass the flatness of how I felt.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” I said, clearing my throat.
Wyatt’s expression saddened ever so slightly. “Why did you?”
Why did I?
A dozen reasons came to mind—I was helping the nuns at the orphanage, some of the younger kids seemed sad and I wanted to spend Christmas Eve with them because I knew what they were going through, I didn’t have anything to wear, I didn’t feel like going out that late, my feet hurt from so many chores . . .
They were all excuses. I was self-aware enough to know the main reason I hadn’t gone was that it would mean something to someone. I’d had amicable relationships with plenty of girls and nuns at the orphanage, but I’d never felt truly loved, or
