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“You have leaves in your hair,” Finny says. “And in your tiara. And everywhere.” I raise my hand and run my fingers through my hair, and he does not move. The sun is gone now, and the evening shifts around us as cars’ headlights throw their light at us and pass on. I see his handsome face and his half smile and the golden lock of hair hanging in his face. I love you, Finny, I think.” — Laura Nowlin
You have leaves in your hair,” Finny says. “And in your tiara. And everywhere.” I raise my hand and run my fingers through my hair, and he does not move. The sun is gone now, and the evening shifts around us as cars’ headlights throw their light at us and pass on. I see his handsome face and his half smile and the golden lock of hair hanging in his face. I love you, Finny, I think.