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Coziness was not in short supply on Lavender Island; little things were cozy because they came wrapped in such extremity.
What I decided about Chef was that he had failed in so many ways that the scope of his interests had dwindled down to what he could do competently. He was silent except when he could lead.
Those memories had been hers by rights, and she had tarnished them. They had been her toys, and she had worn them out by playing with them too often. She could only blame herself.
I hadn’t lost this future, not exactly. It’s just that it was bound away. It was suspended there—my life-to-be, out of reach. And, because I’d imagined it so many times, over and over again, in so many fantasies, it was as good as being in my past.
