3
March 2000
Danny was written into a lot of Evelyn's books. He always had a different name, a different face, a different story, but his core remained the same: He was never good for the people around him, but they loved him anyway. She'd never admit it was him, but I knew—he was always her least favorite character, but his were her favorite scenes to write; the long ones, the dramatic ones, the ones that made people cry when they read them. She loved to write him more than anyone else she wrote into her books, and she wrote a lot of people into her books.
I'd never found myself in anything she'd written, but I'd stopped minding years ago. I'd realized that maybe it was a good thing she never wrote about me.
I was in the kitchen making tea again, in the microwave this time because I d
