Jane looked as if I slapped her with a hardcover. I stood there, waiting for an answer. Then her eyes softened. Was she still mourning her aunt’s death? Or did she realize how heartless she’s been?
When she answered, Jane sounded like a coach explaining to a child why they didn’t make the team. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I placed my hands on my hips, nails digging into my skin. Mom said the same thing when I asked her why she spent more time on the ocean than on land. She gave a sad smile, putting her hands on my shoulders, and gently said, You wouldn’t understand. To me that meant, I’d rather not talk about it.
You wouldn’t understand. I’d rather not talk about itNow, standing in a beloved bookstore, I didn’t know if I should’ve burst into tears or yelled at the top of my lungs.
“I’ll
