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I promise I’m only perverted when explicitly asked to be.
And I spend every second of it coming to accept that I’m still in love with my wife.
“I don’t give a fuck who you’ve slept with or how many times. I don’t give a fuck if you have a boyfriend right this minute. We belong to each other in ways no one else ever will.”
“I managed to go almost five years without your baking.” This statement is shaded in innuendo. “Don’t underestimate my self-control, Wren.”
“All I know is that if I found out heaven was real and got there first? I’d hang back in the waiting room and save you a seat.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, crossing his arms at his broad chest. “I’m supposed to tell you stuff I did not like about you, or things you did that I didn’t like, and that is somehow supposed to work toward my ultimate goal of getting you back?”
I’ve got the biggest, most devastating crush on my ex-husband,
She’s kissing me. Her lips are on mine after five long years. Five hundred years. She’s kissing me. I’m home.
And if you’re mad at me about this and if you think I kept this from you to manipulate you or something, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you that I didn’t, if you’ll let me. If you won’t have me back anymore, then I’ll find you in the next life. You are the only thing that makes me believe in that.
