“This is more like ‘It’s not you; it’s the me that I am when I’m with you.’ ” “What?” “I used to be…” I began. I used to be the girl who stood in a vast golden field of wheat or oats or barley while Max Baines took my face between his palms as if it were something precious. He cupped my cheeks; he traced the scar on my chin with the tip of one thumb; he blinked as if he had trouble believing anyone could be so…well, perfect. I used to be perfect.
