I loved him.I couldn't pinpoint what made me so certain, but I knew it then, as surely as I knew my name or the color of the sky or any fact written in a book.Could he feel it, too?Maxon broke the kiss and looked at me. "You're so pretty when you are a mess."I laughed nervously. "Thank you. For that and for the rain and for not giving up."He ran his fingers along my cheek and nose and chin. "You're worth it. I don't think that you get that. You're worth it to me.

But if it was always a point of speculation, where one person insisted it was a certain way and another denied it, how would anyone ever hold on to the truth?

How can the truth make anything worse?

Could it be that simple? Tell one story to one generation and repeat it until it was accepted as fact?