I force my eyes upward and look at Mia for the first time. She's still beautiful. Not in an obvious Vanessa LeGrande or Bryn Shraeder kind of way. In a quiet way that's always been devastating to me. Her hair, long and dark, is down now, swimming damply against her bare shoulders, which are still milky white and covered with the constellation of freckles that I used to kiss. The scar on her left shoulder, the one that used to be an angry red weld is silvery pink now. Almost like the latest rage in tattoo accessories. Almost pretty.

Mia,” Kim said, an edge of warning in her voice signaling the end of her patience. “You’re starting to act like one of those girls. Do you need to get me a gun?

Anything that kills hope is a sin

Don't be scared...Women can handle the worst kind of pain. You'll find out one day.

I'm so tired of missing things I don't have.

I like French fries," I say. I like French fries? I sound like a slow child in a made-for-TV movie.

I get it now. I have to make good on my promise. To let her go. To really let her go. To let us both go.