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Olivia didn’t say anything until we were safely sequestered in my flat a short time later. She’d let me cry without interfering, without telling me I’d done the right thing, without a word, and I appreciated it. The truth was, I didn’t know what to say, and I think she sensed that.

But her silence didn’t last. She was fuming, and couldn’t keep it to herself any longer.

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He seemed to take his time, mulling over exactly what it was he wanted to say. I waited as patiently as I could, but it was difficult. A million questions raced through my mind, all of them things I’d want to know if I were him. On top of that, though, I had so many questions of my own to ask, so many things I wanted to know about him, now that we were communicating a bit better. But I knew my questions would have to wait. He’d earned the right to go first by not telling me I was a liar and a bitch and slamming down the phone.

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I’ve had an e-mail from one of my fabulous readers asking me about something I’ve been struggling with myself since I started writing Scars, so I thought I’d share my thoughts on the subject with everyone so there are no surprises.

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