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a montage flashes before my eyes: I do break my ankle, actually. And Marco has to lift me into his strong, capable, famous arms and rush me off to the hospital. As I lie there, monitors beeping around me, he strokes my hair away from my face. You’re so brave, Nadia. I let out a beautiful, ragged cough. I’m sorry . . . I was . . . so . . . cough . . . awkward on the boardwalk. I’m . . . kind of . . . poorly . . . cough . . . socialized . . . like a Chihuahua . . . He laughs and says, No. You’re perfect. Then, we get married.
disease is isolating. prepare to be alone. or get really good at lying.
“Too old for love?” I ask. “Too old for heartbreak.”
Forget about the Green Berets, we need to think about militarizing moms.
“It’s so unfair.” This comment is directed at his coffee mug. “You’ve just existed all these years, and I only get to have you now.”
“What if he’s your soulmate?” she shouts after me. I laugh as I swing my leg over my bike. “That would suck, wouldn’t it?”
Just let yourself be loved. You can figure it out. It’s not that complicated.
Love jail! You know, the first three months of any relationship where you disappear off the face of the earth spending all your time, energy, and money on your new lover.
But like any good Catholic, I’m suspicious of this happiness—this
A lot of fucked-up things happen behind white picket fences in big beige houses.”
“Fuck that. I don’t want better. What’s better than you?”
“I’ll help you out of bed. Fuck, I can give you a kidney. I just want you, Nadia. I don’t care about Rome or LA or New York or Evergreen. I’ll go wherever you need me. I want to wake up at your side and know you—whatever version of you—are going to be there. I love you.”
