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“I’d start with your Porsche,” I said. “If I’m a bad boy, you’ll take away my keys?” Michael wiggled his eyebrows in a way that was both suggestive and ridiculous.
“‘To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’”
Quite frankly, I thought that tools who lived in tool houses probably shouldn’t throw stones.
Most people built walls to protect themselves. Dean did it to protect everyone else.
“We didn’t mean to leave you out,” I told her. “I’m used to it.”
“It’s considered impolite to talk above seventy-five decibels,” Sloane sniffed. “I believe it’s called shouting.”
Someday, I was fairly certain that Lia would write a book entitled Making an Awkward Situation Worse.
“Touch her again,” Michael told Christopher conversationally, “and Dean will be the one trying to pull me off of you.”
It’s not the bad memories that tear a person apart. It’s the good ones.
So true...
“I know,” he said. “I know that you care about him. I know that you’re attracted to him. I know that when he hurts, it hurts you. I know that he never looks at you the way he looks at Lia, that you’re not a sister to him. I know that he wants you. He’s in over his head with you. But I also know that half the time, he hates that he wants you.”
On the good days, I told myself that was true, that each time the world tried to break me, I became a little less breakable. On the bad days, I suspected that I would always be broken, that parts of me would never be quite right—and that those were the parts that made me good at the job. Those were the parts that made this house and the people in it home.
“When the odds are bad,” she said, removing something from one of them, “you change the rules.”
