I have yet to be disappointed by a Jodi Picoult novel. This woman can write!
You don’t have to say I love you to say I love you,” you said with a shrug. “All you have to do is say my name and I know.”
“How?”
When I looked down at you, I was struck by how much of myself I could see in the shape of your eyes, in the light of your smile. “Say Cassidy,” you instructed.
“Cassidy.”
“Say…Ursula.”
“Ursula,” I parroted.
“Now…,” and you pointed to your own chest.
“Willow.”
“Can’t you hear it?” you said. “When you love someone, you say their name different. Like it’s safe inside your mouth.”
“Willow,” I repeated, feeling the pillow of the consonants and the swing of the vowels. Were you right? Could it drown out everything else I would have to say? “Willow, Willow, Willow,” I sang; a lullaby, a parachute, as if I could cushion you even now from whatever blows were coming.
