“It’s disgusting. They melted my girl down and poured her into their mold. And this perversion is what she cooled into. I can’t be near her. Can’t see her, smell her, hear her voice chirping like a bird.I tell her the same thing I’ve been whispering every night on the roof. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“What are you doing?”“What does it look like? I’m getting down on my knees.”His head butted against her stomach. Her muscles clenched, shocked at the touch, even through the layer of cotton.“I’ve never begged a woman for anything before. Enjoy this.”She tried to think of something sufficiently sassy. “Enjoy it? I can’t even see it.”“It’s symbolic.”

“Abby,” he murmured, lifting a hand to curve around her neck. “I love you.”A sob slipped free and she wrapped her arms around his waist. One of his hands cupped the back of her neck and cuddled her in close.As he bent around her, he whispered, “I’ve loved you so long, I can’t remember what it’s like to not love you. And I’ll go to my grave loving you. You’re my everything.”

“It’s my baby. I can’t just let her give it away—”

“Should I tell her that I can’t sleep, I can’t eat and I miss talkin’ to her? Or just sittin’ with her? That I miss the secret way she smiles at me? That I constantly think about the way she smells, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her skin, and the sound of her laughter?”

“M. That’s what I call her, this normal, nonexistent me. It’s not that I’ve never done those things, kissed or danced or just “hung out.” I have. But it was put-on, a character, a lie. I am so good at it—lying—but I can’t lie to myself. I can pretend to be M; I can wear her like a mask. But I can’t be her. I’ll never be her.”