The Truth Is in the Detours

by Mara Williams

And here I am, flat on my face, wearing my grief like rancid perfume and my stained tank top from yesterday.

Beau’s gaze softens. And there’s something familiar in that kind, boyish expression beneath the hardcover textbook of a man. He’s paperback Beau: broken binding, creased cover, dog-eared pages, sepia hued.