Peter knew for sure that if they’d named him Twyla, he would have been beautiful.
He knew this truth like he knew his own name was wrong. Out of time, out of sync. Uncool, unbeautiful. Twyla wove through his body like a vein of gold, a barely hidden lode of soft glittery truth. She would have been something.
His mom loved to tell the story, how she’d been…
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