About the book
Borrowed Honeymoon
Evidence The morning I finally take the tickets out again, I do it like I’m handling evidence. They’ve been living in the back of my handbag for months, wedged behind receipts and lip balm, as if hiding them could make them less real. Two names printed in neat black type. Two seats. Two weeks in Venice. A honeymoon that never happened because my fiancé left before the wedding and the world kept moving as if heartbreak were a weather system.