"She belonged to me,” He said simply.
“She was , you know, all the things I wasn’t.
And I was all the things she wasn’t.
She could paint circles around anyone; I can’t even draw a straight line.
She was never into sports; I’ve always been.”
He lifted his outstretched palm and curled his fingers.
“Her hand,” he said. “It fit mine."
-Picoult
