Slow Dance

by Rainbow Rowell

“You think that makes us strangers?” “No,” Shiloh said. “But also, yes? Like—cells get replaced in the human body every seven years. So that’s two full iterations since 1992. You don’t have any cells left that remember me.” “I’m pretty sure my cells remember you, Shiloh.”

What made a kiss good, Shiloh decided, wasn’t technique. It was wanting it—and she wanted this. She wanted him. She’d never wanted anyone else as much or as well.

ONCE CARY STARTED KISSING SHILOH, that day in her dorm room—he couldn’t stop. He’d always known that if he started kissing Shiloh, he wouldn’t be able to stop. That was one of the reasons that kissing her had always been such a bad idea.

“If the inside of your head is boring,” Shiloh said, “only you can fix that.”

You keep telling me not to forget you. When I think of high school, I will remember that every good day started with you walking down your steps and getting into my car. I will remember that every bad day ended with meeting you out by the flagpole.

The percentage of people that Shiloh met and then liked was too close to zero to be statistically significant.

“Don’t begrudge me this life.”