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Because what Miranda represents . . . it’s dead, as dead to me as Gwen’s marriage is to her. I tell myself that, even as I recognize that Melvin’s ghost has never stopped haunting either one of us. Dead doesn’t mean gone.
“No, Kez, don’t pour sugar on a pile of shit and call it breakfast.
Killing someone isn’t like in the movies, something you shrug off with a quip and a drink. It eats at you, even when the person you kill unquestionably has to die.
Sam doesn’t need to be my therapy, or my life preserver, or my rescuer. I have to be all those things for myself if a marriage between us is ever going to work.
“You don’t fight the sea. You leave until the flood’s over.”
Three sixty, three sixty-five.” That means 360 degrees of awareness, 365 days a year.
She’s taller than I am. Thinner, in the way that some rich people are, as if she’s dieted away half her rib cage.
It’s not like the damn movies, where two wait politely while the first one has a go at you; they rush me in a jumbled, stumbling group, and two of them keep my right arm pinned back while the third—the big one—slams a fist the size of a coffee can into my stomach so hard I feel it up my spine.
one thing I know about people from deep personal experience: they’re happy to jump on the hate train if it makes them feel like fucking heroes.
Mrs. Pall rattles the sliding doors back and holds out a set of clothes. They’re ruthlessly folded into perfect squares. I can’t say I’m surprised. She probably knows how to fold fitted sheets too.
A guy lying at the base of the wall in old, cheap desert camo, which is just dumb out here in tree country.
