Then I began to play. Variations on a G major chord, the most wonderful chord known to mankind, infinitely happy. I could live inside a G major chord, with Grace, if she was willing. Everything uncomplicated and good about me could be summed up by that chord.
I started down but Sam caught my arm and knelt down himself to look. “For crying out loud,” he said. “It’s a racoon.” “Poor thing,” I said. “It could be a rabid baby-killer,” Cole told me primly. “Shut up,” Sam said pleasantly.
The room went dark and, after a moment, Grace whispered that she loved me, sounding a little sad. I wrapped my arms tightly around her shoulders, sorry that loving me was such a complicated thing.
Sorry for hurting you, she said right in my ear, but it wasn’t really an apology, because you don’t bite someone’s earlobe to tell them you’re sorry.
I slithered out of the sinkhole on my stomach. It was not the sexiest move I’d ever performed, but I was impressed nonetheless.
Not all. Some of them he probably lectured to death.
Mom, you’re the one who said to never stop in case I get raped or picked up by a democrat.
Wow, you’re never allowed to sleep late again. You’re crankier than a fat guy in stilettos.
Write the book you’ve always wanted to read, but can’t find on the shelf.
I could just barely see the dark curve of his shoulder, and something about the shape it made, the gesture it suggested, filled me with a sort of fierce, awful affection.
Because you have only known me for like fourteen seconds and seven of those were us making out and you still know more about me than all of my friends in this stupid place.
Avoidance is a wonderful therapy.
All of them are men, not a girl amongst them unless you count Tommy Falk because his lips are so pretty.
I try to think of something catchy to say, but there’s nothing but irritation that something that was funny yo an eleven-year-old boy is still funny to a seventeen-year-old one.
The piebald mare paws at the sand; I see her digging out of the corner of my eye and hear her grinding her teeth. That bridle’s her curse, this island her prison. She still smells of rot.
There are too many people on horseback today trying to prove themselves, trying to prepare, trying to get faster. They haven’t discovered yet that it’s not the fastest who make it to race day. You only have to be the fastest of those who are left.
We are shoulder to shoulder due to the size of the cab, and if Gratton is made of flour and potatoes, Sean is made of stone and driftwood and possibly those prickly anemones that sometimes wash up on shore.
What about us? Can i see you again? You can say no. You’d crush all my hopes and dreams, but it’s an option.
Scent is the strongest tie to memory.
No. Not really. A weapon didn’t come to an agreement with the hand that held it.