“Well," Isaid finally, knowing he was waiting, “you make me laugh.” He nodded. “And?” “You're pretty good-looking." ""Pretty good-looking? I called you beautiful." "You want to be beautiful?" I asked him. "Are you saying I'm not?"

Okay, so if that's not real, what is? What counts, to you?" He thought for a second, then said, "I don't know. Just because someone's pretty doesn't mean she's decent. Or vice versa. I'm not into appearances. I like flaws, I think they make things interesting." I wasn't sure what answer I'd expected. But this wasn't it. For a second, I just sat there, letting it sink in. "You know," I said finally, "saying stuff like that would make girls even crazier for you. Now you're cuteand somewhat more attainable. If you were appealing before, now you're off the charts.

Instead, we just sat there, together but really apart, watching a show about a stranger and all her secrets, while keeping our own to ourselves, as always.

It was like when you ripped a piece of paper into two: no matter how you tried, the seams never fit exactly right again.

It was great. Freedom even the imagined kind always is.

I was tired of hanging on, taking the torn pieces to make something whole with them.

So say I’m your mom.' 'What?' I said. 'I’m your mom,' he repeated. 'Now tell me you want to quit modeling.' I could feel myself blushing. 'I can’t do that,' I said. 'Why not?' he asked. 'Is it so hard to believe? You think I’m not a good role-player?' 'No,' I said. 'It’s just–' 'Because I am. Everyone wanted me to be their mother in group.' I just looked at him. 'I just… It’s weird.' 'No, it’s hard. But not impossible. Just try it.' A week earlier, I hadn’t even known what color his eyes were. Now, we were family. At least temporarily.