Just fifteen minutes later, I walk out and find Harper curled up at the end of my sofa, a book in her hands, chewing on the cuticle of her thumb, crying. The fuck? Absolutely not. “What’s wrong?” Her gaze jumps up to mine, startled, and she laughs and wipes her eyes. “Oh, it’s fiction. Stupid books make me cry sometimes. I went to one book club meeting and got hooked. I’m reading this for the next one, and I’m a mess.”
