Another horrible sob wracked Rosario's chest as she sank into the hug, pressing her face into the familiar tumble of red curls.
Still me. Still the same collection of molecules and bone and tissue and neurons. Still the same face in the mirror she'd seen every day since she was old enough to remember.
Except now she was going to look at that face different. She'd wonder, in the same ugly way Grandma Olga had implied, if those were a stranger's cheekbones. Or if that was stupid Archer she was seeing in the set of her mouth. (Did Archer read pulpy mystery books, too? Did he listen to salsa metal? Was he into astronomy? Fuck! She couldn't stomach the thought of sharing anything in common with him, it was bad enough they shared a parent.)
Still me, but me didn't mean what she'd thought it meant. Same result, but the equation was different, and she wished she could say it didn't matter— she wished she could believe it—
"Probably dodged a bullet anyway," she muttered half-heartedly into Lyra's shoulder. "He's probably a massive jerk."