Here’s the thing about love,” Mrs. Basil E. replied. “You get a last chance. And then, when that doesn’t work, you make yourself another last chance. Then another. Then another. You keep going until your last chances run out.
For sure, the last thing I was going to write to her was All I want for Christmas is you.
I wondered what kind of monsters lurked in theaters to prey on people sitting by themselves because their brothers wouldn’t get out of bed to take them to the movies.
Even the hard years have some reason for celebration.
Grandpa has presided over the neighborhood as it went from low-income haven for immigrant families to yuppie enclave.
But we had never gone out of our way to reveal ourselves, either. Instead, we’d let the facts speak for themselves.
But there was something so empty about the prospect of a Christmas Day without opening presents.
This is why I should consider breaking my straight-edge vow. Beer most certainly would help this situation. It probably couldn’t make it any worse. Basic.
What’s the one thing we want when it comes to the people we love? Time. And what’s the scariest thing about how love goes? Time. The thing we want the most is the thing we fear the most, I guess. Time is going to run out. But in the meantime we have... everything.
But Langston repeated, “Lily, you just don’t understand. What you need is someone to keep you occupied. You need a boyfriend.
I realized that Snarl had given me what I asked for as a Christmas present. Hope and belief. I’d always hoped but never believed that I could have such an adventure on my own. That I could own it. And love it. But it had happened. The notebook had made it so.
The whole thing was silly,” I said. “Please tell her there’s no need to apologize. We set ourselves up for this. I was never going to be the guy in her head. And she was never going to be the girl in mine. And that’s okay. Seriously.
Game over,” you say, and I don’t know which I take more exception to – the fact that you say that it’s over, or the fact that you say it’s a game. It’s only over when one of us keeps the notebook for good. It’s only a game if there is an absence of meaning. And we’ve already gone too far for that.
That’s a nice quote,” Langston said. “Underline it and fold down the page for me, will you?” I did as instructed.
Why is it so much easier to talk to a stranger? Why do we feel we need that disconnect in order to connect?
And you were captured at pretty much every angle possible-it’s impressive that the statue of George Washington didn’t whip out an iPhone and email the photos to his friends.
Langston has been in love. Twice. His first big romance ended so badly that he had to leave.
I don’t see what’s so “romantic” about spending a week in a tropical paradise with your spouse whom you’ve already seen almost every day for the past quarter century.
Because I don’t want to,” I said. “Not because of the way she is now – I know that’s not what she’s like. There was no way it was going to be as easy as the notebook. I get that now.
It was Chaos on Glitter Ice. A massacre of librarians.