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“Mrs. Struthers liked me because I fucking loved school,” he says. “I mean, once I figured out how to actually read. Didn’t exactly make me a hit with other kids, though. In high school, things weren’t as bad, and then eventually . . .” “You got hot,” I say somberly. His laugh grates over my skin. “I was going to say ‘I moved to New York.’ ” We’ve stopped moving. Heat corkscrews through my rib cage, coiling tighter with each spiral. I clear my throat enough to joke, “And then you got hot.” “Actually,” he says, “that only happened four or five weeks ago. There was this big meteor shower, and I made a wish and . . .” Charlie holds his arms out as he drifts closer.” — Emily Henry
Mrs. Struthers liked me because I fucking loved school,” he says. “I mean, once I figured out how to actually read. Didn’t exactly make me a hit with other kids, though. In high school, things weren’t as bad, and then eventually . . .”
“You got hot,” I say somberly.
His laugh grates over my skin. “I was going to say ‘I moved to New York.’ ”
We’ve stopped moving. Heat corkscrews through my rib cage, coiling tighter with each spiral.
I clear my throat enough to joke, “And then you got hot.”
“Actually,” he says, “that only happened four or five weeks ago. There was this big meteor shower, and I made a wish and . . .” Charlie holds his arms out as he drifts closer.