Kelly Quindlen

There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re doing just fine.”

There’s nothing to be scared of.”

I may hate her, but I wouldn’t wish homophobia on anyone.

“See you tomorrow, asshole,” she says, turning on the spot.
“I’ll send you a love letter from detention,” I call after her.

“Um, we’re not really into PDA,” I say.
“Yeah, we’re not huggers. It’s so tacky,” Irene adds.
“Really?” Danielle says. I recognize the twinkle in her eyes: She’s about to have some fun. “But I see you hug all the time. I love watching you hug. It’s like all the love in the universe coming together.”
I’m ready to throttle her.

I’m here to tell you that your ex-girlfriend looks like a terrible kisser, and the only person I feel sorry for is that poor girl whose face she was chewing on. Seriously, that was heinous. Did you even like kissing her?”

I realize I’m staring at her without meaning to.

“No. Were you worried I was catching feelings?”
“No,” I say hastily.
“Okay, good. Because I’m not.”
“Good. Neither am I.”

I’m too attuned to her breathing cycle, to the sound of her cheek finding the cold part of the pillow. I’m too aware of the smell of her hair, only inches from my face.

It’s because I can no longer deny that I actually like her.