A couple of years ago I spent a hellish summer in Romania. I remember it was raining hard and extremely windy (a favorite kind of day). The five of us spent the day inside our apartment. Natalie, glassy eyed and red nosed, passed the kindle to me. "Here, you can read it next." (Umm... I am crying enough all on my own without a cancer book to help my tears make their way down my cheeks, thanks). I passed on reading it. I knew it would be great. I knew I would love it. I also knew that it would break my heart. I saw the misery and swollen eyes this book was leaving in its wake. Nope, not me. My heart was already a broken, painful heap of emotions that demanded their own life rather than borrowing on another (fictional or not)'s pain.
So here I am, finally reading it. I'm only 38% done (ughh....don't you hate that?!) Freakin %'s I'm reading it on the Kindle app on my phone, logged into Nat's account. I feel like a traitor every time I use my Kindle. My love for books has only grown but my wallet has not. Borrowing books when I can, no matter the form is sometimes necessary.