“I messed up your drawing.” I cop to the mistake because it’s the right thing to do, and I hold up the sketchbook, opened to the smudged girl. Donnelly comes forward, his stride so unencumbered, and his nearness skips my pulse. He takes the sketchbook and looks. Disappointment isn’t on his face, but he hasn’t pulled away from the drawing either. “With my tears,” I murmur. “I ruined her.” “Nah,” he breathes, studying the page. “You made her better.” He flashes the sketch to me. She seems worse off. “Her eyelashes are blobs now.” “‘Cause she’d been crying,” he says like it makes perfect sense,
...more
