But in the spring of 2006, Justin came back into my life with a phone call from my mother.This time, he’d really screwed up, my mom told me; he’d been arrested as an accomplice in a double murder.In the months before the trial, Justin had a lot of time to think. We wrote about books and family and mutual friends.
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I never really had to figure out how he would treat me after a bad day at work, or whether we would fight over money or our in-laws.
How much can you ever really know about another person, anyway?
I had pushed myself to get through my final year at Georgetown.
For various reasons I felt utterly disconnected from my family and friends back home, who were struggling with their own problems.
Every other week, we greeted each other shyly between panes of smudged glass.
Between my family problems and my painful dating history, I wasn’t ready for a real relationship.
For the first time, I allowed myself to admit I had no idea what I was doing.
That’s when Justin’s letters began finding me with increasing regularity.
He’d describe a fight he’d witnessed and poker games with his new cellmate.