Thomas Sangster

Lee never thought of Thomas Sangster as a good person. In her world, he was like a thunderstorm: loud, abrupt, sloppy. She was an excellent student with perfect notes. They were from different universes.

Everything changed on Tuesday when it rained.

Leah was returning from the library. Thomas, driving a Volkswagen, cut off a truck and ran a red light. The second hand on the dial of his carelessness clicked too late.

She remembered the impact strangely. First, the sound—not a crash, but like a wet towel slapped against tiles. Then the sky, somehow very close, and someone's hands—hot and very trembling.

• Hey! Hey, can you hear me?! Just don't close your eyes!

In the hospital, the cast didn't seem like a punishment. Three weeks. And then Thomas's mother burst into the room with white chrysanthemums. The verdict: Thomas will help every day.

Leah wanted to refuse, but Thomas spoke first.

— It's my fault you're here. Let me help you.

The first three days were torture: he brought soda, put things in the wrong places, and dropped it down the stairs.

“You’re an idiot,” Leah said without malice.

“I know,” he exhaled and grinned.

On the fifth day he brought fantasy instead of Marquez.

— These are honest words. If they kill you, they kill you; if they love you, they love you.

In the margins of the book were his scribbles: a skeleton, a house, a sun, and the caption: "Lee, don't be so perfect. Flaws are beautiful."