I'd known enough people for every minute of the day, and yet still didn't have anyone as my two a.m.

It wasn't like I was some expert on the meaning of being supportive. Was it being loyal even against your better judgement? Or, like Olivia, was it making your displeasure known from the start, even when someone didn't want to hear it?

No one could tell you: you just had to go through it on your own. If you were lucky, you came out on the other side and understood. If you didn't, you kept getting thrust back, retracing those steps, until you finally got it right.

When someone starts to change, and it’s obvious, it's sort of natural to wonder why. Right?

But I'd long ago learned not to be picky in farewells. They weren't guaranteed or promised. You were lucky, more than blessed, if you got a good-bye at all.

My agent is so totally honest, which is just what every writer needs. She won't let me sell a crappy book, even if I want to.

Events conspired to bring you back to where you'd been. It was what you did then that made all the difference: it was all about potential.