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My favorite books, love songs, movies, the ones that resonated with me, have kept me grieving long after I turned the last page, the notes faded out, or the credits rolled.
The only love I’ve ever known or craved is the kind that keeps me sick, sick with longing, sick with lust, sick with need, sick with grief. The distorted kind that leaves scars and jaded hearts.
“Who all lives here?” “Me and two others. They’re like my brothers, and both will bite.” “That’s reassuring.”
“You’re fucking adorable. And beautiful. But let’s be honest, a little too young and good of a girl to be hanging out with us assholes.”
“You makin’ fun of me, Pup?”
“Yeah. They don’t mess around. Fast cars, parties, drugs, and girls.” She leans in close. “I hear they share women.” This bit of news is far more interesting than her dear friend Patricia’s boating accident last year, or the fate of her eleven-year-old cocker spaniel. “Really?” She leans in even closer. “I hear they smoke the weed.” I can’t help my giggle. “That wacky tobacky, huh?”
“Hey, beautiful, you slummin’ it again tonight?”
He moves to greet me with a kiss on the cheek and I shy away. “Morning breath.” “I don’t give a fuck.”
“They say ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave’,” he mutters, shaking his head as he resumes our walk. “Yeah, they do,” I follow behind him. “Your point?” He turns back to me. “I say, it’s the land of the mentally inept, electronically dependent, and brainwashed media slaves.”
Don’t be a slave to the insanity of keeping time and keeping up. Now is the only thing you have control over, and even so, it’s an illusion.”
“So, I’m thinking you don’t have social media?” He sighs. “Fuck no. Hell no—the worst thing we’ve ever done is give everyone a microphone and a place to use it.”
“Something on your mind, Pup?”
“Well, my mom was a mess and lush enough for both of us. One of us had to be the grown-up.”
“Eyes on me, Pup,”
I expect passion and butterflies, and one or two fairy tale moments. When we fight, I want it to hurt. When we fuck, I want to feel it with every fiber of my being. When a man confesses his love to me, I expect him to mean it. I don’t want to question the words’ authenticity. I want to be claimed and owned and ruled and possessed by love.
My greatest hope is to be in all-consuming love. My biggest fear is to be in all-consuming love.
“If there’s a back door into heaven, maybe I’ll find it for you too.”
“You catchin’ feelings for me, Pup?”
“Yeah, let’s take the edge off that.”
“If you’re ever wondering what to do, that’s what you do. Whatever you fucking want, whenever you want, and you don’t apologize for it, not ever.”
“Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars,” he
floors the gas. “Fast,” I say through a laugh. “Woman,” he turns and rolls his mirror-colored gaze over me. Woman, not women.
“You’re an asshole.” “That’s not news. Anything else you need to know?”
“You’re smart enough to decipher truth from fiction.”
“I know what I’m holding, I know her worth,”
“My rainy days are yours, Dominic. If you want them.” “It rains a lot here,” he says after a few long beats. “Fine with me. But my sunny days belong to Sean.”
“I’m all yours, Cecelia.”
“Or maybe it’s not my nephew you’re fucking?” Tyler snaps his head her way, and I lift my hand. “No, it most definitely is your nephew I’m fucking.”
