The truth was, for years I had decorated my wounds until they sounded like harmless little stories.

I told Nathan my family was difficult—not that my mother had made me serve food at Claire’s engagement party because, “You don’t have a boyfriend, so at least make yourself useful.”

I told him my father was demanding—not that he’d asked me to sell my car to cover one of Logan’s debts, only to later announce at lunch that his son was “a fearless entrepreneur.”

I told him about teasing—not about the day my mother said in front of twelve people, “Emily doesn’t need a new dress. She’s not someone people notice.”

You learn to shorten your pain so you don’t scare the people who love you.

We reached Nathan’s apartment in Uptown shortly after ten. It was spacious, quiet, warmly lit, and smelled like fresh coffee. His housekeeper, Mrs. Miller, stepped out of the kitchen, took one look at my face, and asked no questions.