I Didn't Want To Talk

She Said Writting Novels Was Like Childbirth: If You Truly Remembered How Awful It Got, You'd Never Do It Again.

She Was So Emotional, On The Verge Of Tears. This Was What I'd Wanted To Prevent With All Those Quick Disappearances, The Tangledness Of Farewells And All The Baggage They Brought With Them. But Now, Looking At Deb, I Realized What Else I'd Given Up: Knowing For Sure That Someone Was Going To Miss Me. What Happened To Goodbye, Michael In Westcott Had Written On My Ume.com Page. I Was Pretty Sure I Knew, Now. It Had Been Packed Away In A Box Of Its Own, Trying To Be Forgotten, Until I Really Needed It. Until Now.

I Don't Talk About My Books While I'm Writing Them: Not Even My Husband Knows What A Novel's About Until It's Done.

After All With Me & Marshall, It Had Never Been About Words Or Conversation, Where There Was Too Much To Be Risked Or Lost. Here, Though, In The Quiet Pressed Against Each Other, This Felt Familiar To Me. And It Was Nice To Let Someone Get Close Again, Even If It Was Just For A Little While.

When I Was A Teen, I Was Never Really Into The Captain Of The Football Team Or The Student Body President. The Guys I Liked Were Quirky And Different: They Listened To Music I'd Never Heard Of, Never Had Lunch Or Gas Money, And Could Always Make You Laugh.