Rabbit Moon

Grandma Judy has beautiful old-lady handwriting, the letters all connected and slanting in the same direction. To Grace it is a marvel, a lovely but useless talent like churning butter or riding sidesaddle—

The defining characteristic of love, it seems to me, is specificity. To be seen accurately, in all our freakish particularity, to be loved for and despite it. That such a thing ever happens is as close as we get to a miracle.

Each morning at her keyboard, she performs the miracle of resurrection. Day after day, year after year, she writes Lindsey back to life.

It’s clear now, that swanhood didn’t serve her. It only served those around her. Dean Farrell, who took her innocence; the woman called Mei, who sold Lindsey’s beauty and kept the profits. That she, too, was a woman somehow made it worse. All things considered, I am lucky not to be a swan. Objectively, the outcomes are better. Even knowing this, I would happily become one if the chance presented itself.

Loving Dean had taught her that jealousy was addictive: the perverse thrill when her worst fears were confirmed, the terrible vindication of learning she’d been right all along. In some demented way, it was deeply satisfying. Jealousy was like outsmarting love.

That she'd never sensed anything amiss between them made her distrust Dean, and men generally. How could you know if they really loved you? If they were lying, how would you ever know?