I’m not done writing songs about you yet.
Some people see what they want to see.
I was against felonies when a misdemeanor would do.
He was jingling his keys in the pocket of his coat – one of those barn coats described as rugged and classic and four hundred dollar that were usually worn by people who spend more time in Land Rovers than barns.
It occurred to me that there was a story behind the scar – maybe not as dramatic as the story of my wrists, but a story nonetheless – and the fact that everyone had a story behind some mark on their inside or outside suddenly exhausted me, the gravity of all those untold pasts.
Of course he was a part of what I hated about myself. Everything was a part of what I hated about myself. It wasn’t really personal.
He had a carrying, congressional sort of voice, the kind that sounded good saying things like Less of a tax burden on the middle class and Thank you for your donation and Honey, could you bring me my sweater with the duck on it?
It was one frayed rope thrown across the chasm between us. Not enough to get across, but maybe just enough to tell that it wasn’t as wide as I’d originally thought.
I wasn’t sure if I admired him for feeling everything so hard and fiercely, or if I was contemptuous of him for having so much emotion that he had to spill it out every window of the house.
It seemed like the best weapons in my life had always been the most innocuous: empty plastic bins, a blank CD, an unmarked syringe, my smile in a dark room.
I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone!
How long it takes us, each day, to know each other.
The boy had my wolf’s eyes.
Then I picked my book back up again and stroked her hair and read to the soundtrack of her breaths.
Nothing had changed. Nothing.
It wasn’t a touch that said I need more. It was a touch that said I want this.
When Ronan thought of Gansey, he thought of moving into Monmouth Manufacturing, of nights spent in companionable insomnia, of a summer searching for a king, of Gansey asking the Gray Man for his life. Brothers.
His home was populated by things and creatures from Niall Lynch’s dreams, and his mother was just another one of them.
There was no other sound in the world like a car crash.
The big thing in my family growing up is that everybody had to play a musical instrument. We were like the von Trapps.