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Maybe I’d always had the wrong idea as to who I really was.
it’s not other people who make you feel like you’re alone. You do it to yourself.”
“I know you sometimes think that people are like books. But our lives don’t have neat logical plots, and we don’t always say beautiful, intelligent things like the characters in a novel. That’s not the way life is. And we’re not like letters—”
can’t put what we are and stuff it into an envelope and say This is me.
regrets are part of living.”
What was it that made my engine run—the genetic characteristics I got from my biological father or the characteristics I acquired from my father, the man who raised me?
A lot of people in the world had really shitty lives, and it wasn’t even their fault. Like Fito. Some people were just born into the wrong family or adopted by the wrong family, or they were born with something broken inside them.
“Wouldn’t it be great, Sally, if we could just push the delete button in our brains and forget the times somebody hurt us?”
Maybe that’s what life was. You zigged and you zagged and zigged and zagged some more.
Talking wasn’t always easy—even for talkers.
verbal volleyball.
Her laugh was as fragile as the leaves she had raked when I was five.
And, really, I was a little jealous. I was. I mean, Marcos gave Dad something that I couldn’t give him. And Dad was spending more time with him, and I missed having him all to myself, and I knew that it was really frickin’ selfish, and the other thing was that I didn’t really know Marcos all that well, and even though we got along, I wasn’t making any moves toward getting real close to him. I was a little jealous and I was a little suspicious.
He’d learned—maybe because he was born gay—he’d learned how to suffer things in silence. I didn’t want that silence for him.
