She'd always known he didn't love her. But it was easier to bear when he didn't know she loved him. That way they were even. Now he knew he had all the power.

I needed to stop being what everyone thought I was.

Everything was quiet, a strange sort of quiet that felt like an unfinished sentence.

That, they knew, was true friendship. And they knew, if you're lucky enough to find it, you hold on to it.

It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.

Her life was monotonous, but it kept her out of trouble. . . . This, her father would say, was called being an adult.

We're connected, as women. It's like a spiderweb. If one part of that web vibrates, if there's trouble, we all know it, but most of the time we're just too scared, or selfish, or insecure to help. But if we don't help each other, who will?