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Kindle Notes & Highlights
“Allergies: dust, Tide laundry detergent, and shutting the fuck up.”
“No booty calls,” Alex tells him, and Henry chokes on a laugh.
You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life. thanks!
“How is it different from a hotel room? Put the turkeys in my room, Mom.” “I’m not putting the turkeys in your room.” “Put the turkeys in my room.” “No.” “Put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room—” That night, as Alex stares into the cold, pitiless eyes of a prehistoric beast of prey, he has a few regrets.
“Jaffa Cakes, my God,” Henry says. “I’m having my entire life haunted by a deranged American Neanderthal and a pair of turkeys, apparently.”
yo there’s a bond marathon on and did you know your dad was a total babe HRH Prince Dickhead I BEG YOU TO NOT
He feels like a dog that has to be taken on walks to get his energy out. Especially when June says, “You’re like a dog that has to be taken on walks to get his energy out.”
Henry, the prince. Henry, the boy in the garden. Henry, the boy in his bed.
Alex’s heart goes so fucking weird that he has to put his head in his hands for a full minute. (But, like. It’s fine. It’s not a whole thing.)
Some laws of physics would be reassuring right now.
History, huh? Bet we could make some.
A curious thing about grief is the way it takes your entire life, all those foundational years that made you who you are, and makes them so painful to look back upon because of the absence there, that suddenly they’re inaccessible.
You and me and history, remember?
One day, he tells himself. One day, us too.
He wants to set himself on fire, but he can’t afford for anyone to see him burn.
What kind of family, that says, we’ll take the murder, we’ll take the raping and pillaging and the colonizing, we’ll scrub it up nice and neat in a museum, but oh no, you’re a bloody poof? That’s beyond our sense of decorum!
