"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Olivia loved you. She loved you a lot. You were flawed and strange; quiet and different, a private person who loved to see and be seen. I found you fascinating, but it took her getting pulled out of this life for me to meet you. I’m sorry, but you weren’t worth it. I left you flowers when I was in England, signed them from her. I had to. I’ll never have more closure for her than that; and that’s something that I always need: a last goodbye, an explanation, I crave the ending. I don’t handle things well, but apparently you never really did either–but you could cut things out of your life, you left Arabia and the Great War behind and went onward.

Every time I see a painting, a statue, a film when you and the motorcycle, I feel like if I shout loud enough you won’t get on. Maybe one day you won’t, that’s what I really need. One day the bike won’t start and you’ll get a different one out, a slower one, or maybe it will start eventually but by the time you reach the bend in the road those kids will be gone and you won’t have to swerve to miss them.

The day that you don’t get on the bike is the day that I’m going to go onto Olivia’s page or check my email and have a reply from her.

Please take care of her for me. Introduce her to Peter O’Toole, she beat him there by a few weeks, but introduce them for me? Thank you.