“Would you have forgiven me…” he asked, “if I’d gone over the side of the treehouse with you that day?” I stood there, tears burning the backs of my eyes. I didn’t know how to answer. I searched my brain. Why did that question strike me like it did? It seemed almost vulnerable. It was the first moment since I’d started school here that he hadn’t acted like an asshole. Would I have forgiven him if he’d been hurt, too? I could’ve died that day. I could’ve been hurt a lot worse than I was now. My neck could’ve broke. I could’ve wound up in a coma for the rest of my life. And he could’ve gone over
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