She was made of the stuff that would make the perfect partner: she thought of others first; she listened; she remembered things. She left notes in my packed lunch box before I went to work and sent cards just to say how proud she was of me. The way I had always made boys like me was with smoke and mirrors, exaggeration and bravado; heavy makeup and heavy drinking. There was no performance or lies with Farly—if a boy ended up loving her, he loved every cell of her from date one, whether he knew it or not. She was my best-kept secret, and now it was out.
