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Half the time I’m convinced they put something in the pink dye to help eat away at your shame. Keep you coming back whenever your roots start growing in.
he looks like the kind of guy who’d patiently help your grandmother cross the street one minute and fuck you dirty on the floor the next.
Seems we don’t have that in common. Not when it comes to her, anyway. I know myself. I’ll be done for the second I touch her.
There’s something about her that unhinges me, like I’d happily agree to swim with sharks if she asked me to.
“Do you think we can take him out for a bit? So I can hold him?” Marry me.
This is it, isn’t it? The moment I’ll look back on one day with regret.
“Jenna, don’t ever not call me. Ever. Do you hear me? Day or night, no matter—no matter where we are twenty years from now. No matter what you need. Call.”
Who made this man?
Fuck. Everything’s just better when she’s around.
It’s a damn reflex at this point. I don’t remember how it started. But it’s a reflex, and the second my lips hit her forehead, the second I pull back to absolute crickets at the table, I know I messed up. Committed a fatal error. It’s inevitable now, the onslaught of questions from the two hyenas across the table, Jude and Theo, watching the whole thing unfold with their eyebrows trying to climb the stairway to heaven.
Her shoulders are shaking, and from here I can tell she’s told him something funny. My eyes narrow. What the hell does he think he’s doing, just staring at her— Finally, he returns a laugh. Yeah. He’d better laugh at her jokes. She jokes, you laugh. It’s not a hard concept.
“And when you doubt yourself again or forget who you are even for a second, you come to me. I’ll remind you that you’re Jenna Fucking Carling. Every. Single. Time.”
“I’d give up everything to do this for you every minute of the day. To make you feel this good and get those sweet little sounds out of you.”
“Jenna, I have a hard time picturing you getting married because I wouldn’t have you to myself anymore. And I have a hard time accepting that there’s a guy out there who’s worthy of my dream girl.”
“Yesterday you asked about the forehead kisses. What they meant. And I lied to you.” His eyes tick up, meeting mine. “Ask me again.” I’m not breathing. “What do they mean?” He gives me a little smile. “They mean I constantly crave the way you feel. They mean I can barely muster a thought about anything but you. They mean I wake up in cold sweats most nights, thinking about how much it would scare me to have you, and how bad it would hurt to lose you.” My heart hammers and he looks at me earnestly. “Jenna, I’m so tired of pretending I don’t have real feelings for you. Fighting the way I feel
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“Look at me go. Who says the over-sexualized himbo can’t get the girl?”
