“I love you.”I stared stupidly at him. Was he joking again, reciting another line from my story? I didn’t remember writing this.He leaned in and kissed me. I didn’t respond for a few seconds. My mind lagged behind what my body was feeling.“Say it,” he whispered against my lips. “I know this is hard for you. Tell me.”“I love you.” Hearing my own words, I gasped at the rush of emotion.He put his hands on either side of my jaw and took my mouth with his.”

“Dad" I pleaded, "this is so [cuss word you never, ever say in front of your mother] ridiculous.”

“It’s going to be a pretty day to fly.”

“You're a beautiful girl If you show the slightest interest in Alec, he'll want to go out with you. I know I would.”

“They’re taking us to the room to change. Do you think we’ll have time for a quickie? Because we never got around to doing it against the wall.”He blinked at her. She thought he hadn’t heard her. Finally he smiled, slowly at first, his grin becoming broader as she slid her hand onto his thigh. “We will always make time for a quickie,” he said. “And that is a wedding vow.”

“And you’re beautiful. You’d have to work pretty hard to mess that up.”

“Yes, I was good at reading people. I studied them so I could put them in my novels.”

“I turned to the clarinets. They were a resourceful lot.”

“Why are you pretending to write, when I already know you're just doing that to intimidate me?”

“I love you.”I stared stupidly at him. Was he joking again, reciting another line from my story? I didn’t remember writing this.He leaned in and kissed me. I didn’t respond for a few seconds. My mind lagged behind what my body was feeling.“Say it,” he whispered against my lips. “I know this is hard for you. Tell me.”“I love you.” Hearing my own words, I gasped at the rush of emotion.He put his hands on either side of my jaw and took my mouth with his.”

“If you're putting that energy into performance," he said, "you're also getting it back out again, right? You're giving so you can receive." He spread his arms wide. "If you were writing songs with it, you'd be holed up in your room in the middle of the night, scribbling them in a notebook and feeling self-important. You'd think you were getting it out, but really you'd be keeping it inside and quiet. You'd take what upset you and turn it into art, and now it would fester, because you think other people ought to share your outrage at what happened to you.”