She sucked in a breath and tried to pull away. But I whispered, “Look at me.” She stopped resisting, but still refused to meet my eyes. What was wrong with her? As far as my friends were concerned, there’d always been something wrong with her, but she looked…defeated. Like a broken vase barely held together with glue. Emory Scott never looked like that. She looked down, probably at our hands, and I didn’t tighten my hold or caress her fingers. I just held her. “Look at me,” I whispered. But she choked out a sob, turning her face away so I wouldn’t see. “Don’t,” she demanded. “Please, don’t be
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