E. Lockhart

Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt?
Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom?
It is hard for her to tell the difference.

“But do you even want to see the whole picture?” Gat asks. “Could you even understand it?”

Nothing wrong with me that a Percocet and a couple slugs of vodka doesn’t cure

No one is a criminal.

No one is an addict.

No one is a failure.

Johnny, he is bounce, effort, and snark.

Mirren, she is sugar, curiosity, and rain.

He was contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee.

“I do find you pretty, Cady. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. In fact, when did you get so pretty? It’s distracting.”

It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can’t see who you are. It is better to lead than to follow. It is better to speak up than stay silent. It is better to open doors than to shut them on people.

MY SON JOHNNY is dead.

Jonathan Sinclair Dennis, that was his name. He died at age fifteen.

There was a fire and I love him and I wronged him and I miss him. He will never grow taller, never find a partner, never train for another race, never go to Italy like he wanted, never ride the kind of roller coaster that flips you upside down. Never, never, never. Never anything.

Still, he visits my kitchen on Beechwood Island quite often.