“Speaking of your fiancée,” Rook says. “What’s up with that?” I turn toward him a little, arching an eyebrow. He moves his feet from the desk, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Does she know about your schizophrenia?” Do you? I want to ask. This guy has been my best friend for years. He forced me to eat when all I wanted to do was wither away. Stood by me while I was bitter, celebrated when I healed. There’s never been a moment, good or bad, without Rook Van Doren in it. Yet, he still doesn’t know me. Not entirely, not fully, not the way I know him.
