I’m clenching my fists so tight my fingernails leave red crescent moons on my skin. I feel a surge, a heat roar up inside me. As bad as I’m hurting now, he’ll hurt ten times worse. That’s the only thing that keeps me going.
It’s the “too”? that’s the sticking point. The “too”? is what stops me in my tracks. It sticks in my craw. Because if he hadn’t said “too”? it would be about me and him. Not about me and him and Margot.
It was the promise of maybe, maybe one day.
But I don’t think people change at the core.
What must it be like, to have a boy like you so much he cries for you?
Was i on five or six? “Peter! You made me lose my count again!” “I have that effect on women.” I roll my eyyes at him and he grins back at me, but before he can say anything else, I yell,” Kitty! Get down here!
There’s nothing crazier than a Christmas tree all lit up.
It’s scary when it’s real. When it’s not just thinking about a person, but, like, having a real live person in front of you, with, like, expectations. And wants.
It’s a lot of responsibility to hold a person’s heart in your hands.
Life doesn’t have to be so planned. Just roll with it and let it happen.
Do you think there’s a difference? Between belonging with and belonging to?
There’s no use in asking what if. No one could ever give you the answers. I try, I really do, but it’s hard for me to accept this way of thinking. I’m always wondering about the what-ifs, about the road not taken.
But the little things are what make up life.
I’ve always loved the first day of school better than the last day of school. Firsts are best because they are beginnings.
I need you to know that no matter what happens, it was worth it to me. Being with you, loving you. It was all worth it.
Sometimes questions can be more cruel than insults.
I hate change more than almost anything.
Do you know what it’s like to like someone so much you can’t stand it and know that they’ll never feel the same way.
Looking on the bright side of life never killed anybody.
Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirty.