More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
I grew up sick. Let me clarify. I grew up believing that real love stories include a martyr or demand great sacrifice to be worthy. 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.
I can still feel them all, my boys of summer.
That whatever remains of my heart, body, and soul belongs to a man who wants nothing to do with me.
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.
my face in my hands and feel a smile building beneath.
“But do yourself a favor—never research your heroes.” “Why?” He tips his beer. “Because you’ll find out they’re human.”
“I mean, the idea of America is great, the execution not so much.
people only hear what they want to.”
“There’s a beauty to keeping a secret, Cecelia. But it can only remain one if you choose to guard it.
Everyone has them, but not many can keep them.”
The morals we’re taught early on are meant to guide us, and without them, we’re directionless.
For the first time in my life, I don’t see the beauty in tragedy. I see the cruelty of it.
be very careful about who you give your heart and body to. They might eventually take more than you can handle.”
