“Don’t look at them too long.” “Why?” “They’re my ugly shoes.” He raises his brows. “You have designated ugly shoes?” “I have a designated ugly everything,” I tell him. “You should see my designated ugly pajamas—and by that, I mean, if you ever actually saw me in them, I’d have to bury you.” “Well, now I’m really curious. Though I doubt it’s possible for anything to look ugly on you,” he adds in the same offhand tone. He could be making a passing comment on the rain. I stare at him. It feels like my body’s internal system is malfunctioning, the wires in my brain whirring and overanalyzing
...more
