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Joanne Parker is a liar.
Not because she wants to be. Lying doesn't make her feel good. Lying, to Jo, has become a learned defense. A means of survival at times. If she didn't lie, she would die. Or at least, that was how she was made to feel.
Joanne lived a comfortable life. She went to school, had holiday vacations to Colorado or New York or Cambridge, styled her hair every morning, and kissed her parents on the cheek every time she left home. She had friends she cherished so, so much and spent every waking moment with: on the phone, at school (where they sat out blankets beneath the California Black Oak and ate raspberries, thinking up plans for the weekend), after school, holidays... Her friends were her family. And she would have done anything for them.
But then she fell in love.
He was older, which was exciting, and her parents didn't know which made their love feel forbidden; thrilling. Her friends were jealous, the good kind of jealous, the kind of jealous that makes you euphoric, not bitter. A college boy. Educated. Mature. Jo Parker being only sixteen was no fuss. She was mature for her age. And he loved her. He loved the way she smelled in the morning, like coco butter and toothpaste, loved the way she idolized him, loved the way she kept secrets. And she loved him for the way he listened, for the way he protected her, for the way he opened her eyes to the people in her life who had taken advantage of her.
She didn't realize how blind she was until she met him. How she was a pawn of the world, a chest piece moved around to the discretion of the people who supposedly cared about her. "They don't listen to you, you give more than you're given, Dove."
He called her Dove more than he did Joanne, or Jo, or Parker. It was a name shared between them. Dove, meaning love, peace, hope. All of which she only ever felt with him. It was an unforgivable infatuation.
"Dove, there's a whole world out there waiting for us. Taste it with me? I don't want to be alone. Do you? Do you want to be alone?" Joanne couldn't fathom being alone. And without him, without Harrison, she would be. She would be undeniably and perpetually alone. Because her friends were no longer cherished by Jo but resented, and dinners with her parents were so silent now. Harrison was the only person she had left in her little world. So she left with him.
He promised her a place where they could be at peace together. A place so far from home she would never have to be reminded of it again. He said this would make it easier for them both; because they were lovers, and lovers love in harmony. But the lover she loved fell to his demise. He was no longer the Harrison she adored but a horrifying counterpart. He hurt her in ways no sensible person could ever forgive. But she did. She forgave him time and time again, despite how long the nights were and how cold the mornings felt.
