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the child inside of me clung to the promise for all it was worth. And promises like that to girls like me were worth everything.
“What happened?” he demanded, glaring down at me. “Who the fuck made you cry?” “What?” I breathed, shaking my head. “I’m not crying.” “Your eyes are red and swollen,” he deadpanned. “You’ve been crying.” His eyes moved to my cheek. “The fuck happened to your face?”
Other days it was chocolate or a cup of tea or a new pair of hair ties, or some other form of bribery given with the intention of shutting me up.
You could love this girl your whole life, the crazy thought persisted inside my brain over and over, if you just let yourself.
Bending down, I retrieved the newspaper with shaky hands and just stared at the picture of us. He kept it. In his room. Under his bed.
“I’m going to hug you,” Johnny whispered in my ear. “Tell me if that’s not okay.”
“Having a vagina doesn’t automatically tie you to a cooker—or a fucking hoover.”
I wanted to fight all her battles. I wanted to give her all her smiles and make her laugh and snatch her away from the rest of the world and keep her all to myself. I just wanted her. For keeps.
