The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Be wary of men with something to prove.

“I know,” I said. “I stole it from the set of Father and Daughter. But don’t tell anyone.” “I hope you know by now that all of your secrets are safe with me,” Celia said as she started unbuttoning it to put it on. I think for her it was a throwaway line. But it meant a lot to me. Not because she said it, I suppose. But because when she said it, I realized I believed her. “I do,” I said. “I do know that.” People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is “You’re safe with me”—that’s intimacy. And by those standards, that moment with Celia was the most intimate one I’d ever had with anyone. It made me so appreciative, so grateful, that I wanted to wrap my arms around her and never let go.

What’s that saying? Behind every gorgeous woman, there’s a man sick of screwing her? Well, it works both ways. No one mentions that part.

You wonder what it must be like to be a man, to be so confident that the final say is yours.

And of course, that’s the easiest lie to tell, one you know the other person desperately wants to be true.

There was something stately about her, at the age of twenty-eight. She was mature and dignified. She looked like the kind of person who knew exactly who she was.

It’s always been fascinating to me how things can be simultaneously true and false, how people can be good and bad all in one, how someone can love you in a way that is beautifully selfless while serving themselves ruthlessly.

Guilt is a feeling I’ve never made much peace with. I find that when it rears its head, it brings an army. When I feel guilty for one thing, I start to see all the other things I should feel guilty for.

Which is about the cruelest thing you can do to someone you love, give them just enough good to make them stick through a hell of a lot of bad.