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Chelsey’s lips twitched, hating the implication that being born female made you automatically guilty of something.
That the truth is these people are not strangers. They are the men who you sleep with, the men you work with, the men you raise. I wish this wasn’t what it means to be female—it is not a matter of if something bad will happen, but when.
He should have taught his daughters that you cannot save yourself from heartbreak. You cannot save yourself from grief.
Jimmy thinks about choices people make. How a decision cascades. How one event can change everything.
People are conditioned to believe girls plus bad choices equals bad things. It’s a type of inoculation. Lead a good life, and nothing heinous will befall you. But no one is invulnerable. No one untouched.
Violent men are forged. They are made.
But often, Chelsey wondered if her father, if people in general, should spend less time protecting daughters and more time worrying about sons.
The greatest trick the devil ever played wasn’t convincing others he didn’t exist, but that your friends were your enemies.
Is there a word for loving the thing you fear the most?
Why did no one ever tell Lydia that the most dangerous thing in the world isn’t natural disasters or wars or weapons? It is unremarkable men with beautiful smiles and even bigger promises.
She lets the grief roll through her and crest. A foamy burst. Because what is grief but the other side of love?
