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He’s being obstinate, recalcitrant, incompassionate. He’s being everything he taught us to be, and I hate him for it.
“My mother is the keeper of all the stories, even if she’s only a semi-reliable source of information. She has a habit of mixing up people’s names and not particularly caring if she gets the details right.”
“And you’re being kind. Again.” “I can be kind and honest,” I say. He sighs. “Those two things are rarely true at the same time.”
“Watching that small-town show again?” he asks. There’s something deeply absurd about this. Sitting on Alec Connovan’s couch after midnight, eating pizza, with Gilmore Girls playing in the background.
It’s by an author I love, and I can tell the characters are great. The tropes are exactly what I like.
“Life of a perfectionist,” he says. His fingers brush against my shoulder, a barely-there touch. “Always striving for something just out of reach.” “Never quite satisfied with what you have.”
Things don’t have to end up the way you planned for them to be wonderful. And that’s something I can work with.
“Hey, rich guy.” “Hey, stand-up,” I say. “Evaded any taxes lately?” “Bombed on stage lately?”
“Of course you are. But why should that stop either of you? I’m too unfunny to be a stand-up, Isabel’s too injured to perform, and bumblebees are too heavy to fly, and all that. But here we are anyway, doing all of it.
