I was having a hard time recognizing myself, but there I was sitting in my car, at half-past two in the morning, quoting Shakespeare to the girl I’d once hated. Hated—past tense. Truth was I couldn’t have told you the last time I had hated that girl. Maybe when she’d sat with me in my bedroom a year earlier, maybe never. All I knew was my lips tingled from the fact that hers had been against them, and I loved her taste.
