Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)

by Kennedy Ryan

There was admittedly some relief with his passing. Relief for my grandfather, who would never have chosen the existence Alzheimer’s left him with, and for my mother, who absorbed the brunt of his care.

In my twenties, I was just running. Always in the streets and for what? In my thirties, I started asking big questions and looking for answers. Now I know exactly who I am and what I want. And I can finally afford myself.”

“We are not magic,” she says. “We are resilient. It’s not a wand. It’s work. We work harder and shine brighter to survive. Excellence for us has been a matter of necessity.

When I was really young, I used to say I wanted kids because that’s what the world tells you. That’s what everyone expects, and you don’t always know how to be different at that age. You just fall in line. You’re still a child yourself when they shove a baby doll in your hands and say pretend you’re the mommy. Even that young they telegraph that this is what you’re supposed to do.”

People always ask why I don’t want kids, like it’s not enough to just know you don’t. I don’t ask anyone to defend their decision to have children. So why should I have to defend my decision not to?”

There are women like me who are mothering in our own ways, but have never carried a child or been a parent. We’re teachers and mentors and social workers and godmothers. We find ways to pour love into the world, to shape the world for good without bearing a child. It’s not about our wombs. It’s about our hearts and how we share them. That is bodily agency—me getting to decide what I do with my body in this life.”

I’m not good at denying myself something I want. And I’m finally admitting to myself that I want Hendrix. Bad.

I have never had with anyone else what I have with Maverick. Not just the sexual attraction… which is not insignificant, but the camaraderie, the aligned values and work ethic. Shared convictions. The way he makes me feel. The way he makes me laugh. The way he makes me think. God, the way he sees me. He’s generous. Not even talking about money, but generous with his affection and praise.

Strength is not always control. Sometimes it’s surrender.”

Even if I didn’t have a relative diagnosed, Black people are almost twice as likely to develop Alzheimer’s.

I lean forward to kiss him, hoping the depth, the hunger of it tells him all the things I’m not ready to say. That I’d choose him again and again. That I feel safer with him than any man I’ve ever been with. That when I’m in his arms, even though it’s soon and fast, choosing him feels like choosing me because sometimes I’m not sure where he ends and I begin. I never knew I could be completely my own person and completely someone else’s, but that’s the beautiful dichotomy of being with Maverick.

I’ve taken care of myself and others for so long, I almost forgot how it feels for someone else to want to take care of me.

You work hard. Let me make things soft for you.”

🥹🥹