Mistletoe. I surmount all obstacles.

I’m talking about the language of flowers. It’s from the Victorian era, like your name. If a man gave a young lady a bouquet of flowers, she would race home and try to decode it like a secret message. Red roses mean love; yellow roses infidelity. So a man would have to choose his flowers carefully.

The open forgiveness in her eyes, the uncensored love, terrified me.

Nothing you could do would make me send you away. Nothing.

I was unaccustomed to men in general, having spent my adolescence in all-female group homes with only an occasional male therapist or teacher, and I couldn’t remember having ever been in such proximity to a man who was both young and handsome. Grant was so different from everything I was used to—from the size of his hands, heavy on the table, to the low, quiet voice that echoed into the silence between us.

Lui la abbracciò stretta, e quando lei cominciò a tremare, per il freddo o il pianto o entrambi, la avvolse nella coperta e la strinse a sè ancora di più. Per la prima volta, rimpianse profondamente la sua decisione, si pentì di averla lasciata ad affrontare il liceo da sola, mentre avrebbe potuto essere al suo fianco. Non l'aveva mai considerata debole perché non lo era, ma era vulnerabile e lui l'aveva abbandonata.