Rebecca Berto

“Charlee has my arm. She has my arm—my arm that’s rigid from pleasure, from her touch—in her little fingers. She holds my other one, too and she’s right there, that sweet candy perfume stripping the rest of the strength from my body, and it escapes in a soft, breathy sigh.”

“You know there’s this gaping space between us, and if I leaned forward I’d grab Dex’s shirt without ever touching him. You know there’s a three-inch-thick glass wall separating us.Now we know, too.”

“He pries me from his chest and drops his hand from the back of my head, tracing my ear, along my jawline. He snatches his fingers a moment before they press into my lip.”

“The moment weighs down on me, threatening to unstitch my seams and expose me to the world.”

“You need to wait until you are worthy of having a child of your own.' She pats her hair down, which is rock hard. Her action is pointless, but she’s worried about appearances as usual. 'And someone like you who’s responsible for killing my babies—your own siblings—is not worthy.”

“Still speaking over me,' she says, meeting my eyes and scoffing. 'You are still that worthless little girl.”

“I am kind and beautiful. I have a soul.It’s better to be known for what I am not. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”