Lewis’ Lee is likely the first 15-year-old I fell in love with. And Heather Lewis, who writes pleasure and pain in a way that’s difficult to find done like this, is missed and missed, and I’m sure not only by me:
“I closed my eyes—not to keep her out this time, but to let her in. She brushed her hand along my cheek. I knew she wouldn’t kiss me, would leave that up to me and I would’ve, except I tuned too far in to how her hand felt on my cheek. How definite and unabashedly tender it was. And though I ached just where you’d expect me to, I hurt worse somewhere else and pressed against her to keep that hurt at bay by fixing the other.”
Get House Rules.