L.A. Kuehlke

“Miranda waited. No voice spoke. No heavenly choir broke out in song. God Himself did not call her name. She frowned. Typical.”

“You’re not his,” Bryan said firmly. “Bry, I don’t know whose I am anymore.”

“Everything made sense in a book...Too bad her life wasn’t fiction.”

“You still do that thing, you know,” she said.“What thing?” He raised an eyebrow.Miranda smiled. “That thing where you say what I’m thinking. That thing.”“Oh,” Bryan began, “I suppose it comes from years of having to read your mind to figure out what was going on in there.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Your turn.”

“I think it would have to be the way that my sister looks at you when you can’t see it.” “Yeah? And how’s that?” he asked, very interested in the answer. “Oh, you know,” she said coolly, “like you’re the air she needs to breathe.”

“When had things gotten so tangled in her heart and mind? Everything had been clear at one point, hadn’t it? No, she supposed it never had been perfectly clear.”