“I don’t think I remember anything about myself that happened before him.”

it couldn’t have really been that bad, or What could I have done to stop it? The excuses we make for them are outrageous, but they’re nothing compared with the ones we make for ourselves.

He says it’s unbearable, the way they drip with beauty. He tells me he calls them up to his desk, his hand on their knees. “I pretend they’re you,”

Like Strane insisting I vocalize what I want to shift the burden of culpability.

“If you already read it,” I ask, “why do you need me to say it?” He doesn’t answer, but I know why. Because he needs to know I’m willing.

This, I think, is the cost of telling, even in the guise of fiction—once you do, it’s the only thing about you anyone will ever care about. It defines you whether you want it to or not.

“I know how driven you’ve always been toward confession,” he says. “And it seemed a harmless way for you to satisfy that need.

And now, in the aftershock of survival comes the desire to tell.

Henry must know I would let him touch me but he never tries. That, I know, is the most meaningful detail. It negates everything else.