More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“You want some soup or something? No offense, but you look like a corpse.” “Full offense, but you look like someone who deals weed to middle schoolers.”
“You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
I don’t want to argue about money. I want to keep enjoying the day and not have him worry about how he’s going to afford it. I want to be invited to more days like this, and if I have to buy that privilege, so be it. Our food comes—two heavily loaded trays—and we each take one over to a vacant picnic table.
No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.
“Jesus, no, I mean yes, of course I’ve liked you. What I meant is that I just realized that I like you. Like, I want to kiss you.
“I wouldn’t mind if you were bad at kissing,” he muses, not letting go of my hand. “That just means we get to practice more.”
“I really like you, Carter Morgan. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anybody before.”
“Max, this is Zeke. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Carter.”
