It is easy, Jude has always reflected, to love a difficult woman. Easy to become the solid place around which she gathers herself, all her insecurities and rages and vendettas, the mooring from which she hangs. Irene is a fucking nightmare, and lovable for it. Lovable because she asks consistently to be loved, a desire that streams from her spiteful, sparkling face, from the way she kisses, from the way she’ll sometimes jerk awake at night and stare around in panic. She expresses a constant desire to be better—tries hopelessly to cook, tries to let go of grudges—yet Jude loves the specific
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