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Intending no harm, people often blundered. Sometimes they blundered because their personal histories hadn’t taught them to be sensitive to certain issues. And sometimes they blundered because— Sometimes they blundered because they had trust issues. Major trust issues.
“I don’t think forgiveness is something that can be owed.” Against his face, he could hear her labored swallow. He could feel it. “Especially if that forgiveness hasn’t been earned. Even if the person who hurt you is also someone who—who loves you.” Her fingers stilled, her warm palm cradling his skull. “You can choose to offer it. But you don’t owe it to anyone. Not even your parents.”
And as her mother kept hinting, maybe April should be alarmed by how quickly he’d moved into her home and become a familiar, essential presence in her daily existence. Instead, it seemed . . . natural. As if he’d been in her life for years, although she’d met him only weeks ago.
“You l-love me, but you still hurt me. When I talk to you, when I see you, I end up half-convinced that who I am, what I am, is wrong and abhorrent and needs to be fixed.”
Please tell me people who look like us can be loved. Please tell me people who look like us can be desired. Please tell me people who look like us can have happy endings.
As we’re both aware—all too aware—some scriptwriters believe death and misery and stagnation are more clever, more meaningful, and more authentic to reality than love and happiness and change. But life isn’t all misery, and finding a path through hard, hard lives to joy is tough, clever, meaningful work.
