And when she turned, there was a whole wall of bookshelves. Just plain white shelves, waiting to be filled. Except they weren’t completely empty. There was a stack of books already on one shelf, which she recognized as some of Chris’. The library copy of the baseball book he’d retrieved from his dad’s house. That sports biography, that book The Tender Land, a copy of Catch-22, his copy of Mandy, which they’d finished together, her reading parts of it aloud to him in bed. And on top of the stack, a little rubber duck, just like in her old profile picture. “Chris, I—” She didn’t even know what
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