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“Sometimes.” He missed Libby Rhodes the way he would miss having electricity. Or his left hand. He did not know how to function without her.
The presumption that she was in pieces just because she had once been broken was a dangerous one. Easy to misinterpret, and to underestimate in turn.
You trusted people, you loved them, you offered them the dignity of your time and the intimacy of your thoughts and the frailty of your hope and they either accepted it and cared for it or they rejected it and destroyed it and in the end, none of it was up to you. This was just what you got. Heartbreak was inevitable. Disappointment assured.
“Libby Rhodes is not your goodness, Tristan,” she cautioned. Steadying him, as if for disappointment. “She’s her own open flame.”