Marlowe
"My mother left when I was young," I said, which was true, careful, considerably smaller than the truth I'd almost handed over a moment earlier. "My father raised me. Died when I was a kid. Everything since then's been — hard. I don't like people getting close because getting close has never once worked out well for me."
It wasn't a lie. It also wasn't the whole shape of anything, and I watched King absorb it slowly, weighing the words like he could feel the missing pieces even without being able to name them.
"That's not everything," he said finally.
"No. It's not."
"But it's something."
"It's something." I held his gaze, steady, asking without asking for him to let that be enough for now. "I panicked at the lake because wanting something good has never once meant I got to k
