A lady I will be, but a man's accessory, his handbag, no thank you. I will not be someone's ornament. I will not just be someone's honey, baby, sweetheart.

You were a stone wall, a fort in high, unreachable trees, an island, my own island, that no boat could reach.

Maybe it was wrong, or maybe impossible, but I wanted the truth to be one thing. One solid thing.

I know parental embarrassment usually stops somewhere at fifteen, but he just kept on giving me good reasons.

This was what happened after you'd been together with someone a long time. You loved that it was old and worn and comfy, but sometimes it was old and worn and comfy.

Truth was funny, because it was an insistent thing, maybe as powerful and insistent as some force of nature, the push of water or wind. You could keep it out only so long, but it had its own will and its own needs, and maybe you could keep it at bay with lies, but not for long, not for always.

You could care enough to keep a secret, but you could care enough to tell one, too.