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You’re basically Dad.”
Molly folded her arms. “Fine. Why don’t we mark our calendars for twenty years from now and see if
Rachel is writing about girls whose daddies ran away?”
someone from school might walk in and catch her having parents.
He took in the cover,
???
The kid looked impatient. “Land the plane, Daddy.”
But it all happened just like in the dream. Do you know why?” “Because you’re making this up? Because this is fiction?”
Britt smiled. It was a smile that held exactly zero joy. “A few less surprises would’ve been just fine.”
swell. “Jamie Okoye.”
“She is an editor at Lotus.” “Lotus? Like Lotus Magazine?”
Maternity Leave?”
door, elbow-deep in a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats.
“Some are Asian, some are Tex-Mex.” “Tex-Mex is a cuisine, not a nationality. Are you taking them to Qdoba?”
“I think the point of your story is that there isn’t as much grain in your silo as you’d like us all to believe,” McGuinn snickered.
Let’s not rush to sympathy, Molly thought. We don’t
know that Gustavo didn’t murder his wife.
exactly what I was thinking
life. You need to stop thinking about poor Jodi whose mommy moved away. Lots of parents do, like when they get divorced. The hatred you feel for me is unfounded. Love, Your mother
For a moment Molly thought she detected disappointment in Jamie’s profile, as if she’d believed that she and Molly were both keepers of the same sacred secret and was just now disabused of that fantasy.
I think Jamie's mom left her
“Sweetheart, never thank a man for having dinner with his daughter, for surely it is his richest reward.”
then invited the server to recommend her favorite menu items. Molly hated when he did that. The menu was written in English, and they were both adults who’d been to plenty of restaurants before and were well acquainted with their own tastes. Why populate the table with dishes favored by someone who wouldn’t be eating them?
Chaz
“I’m not perfect—far from it—but I have tried all my life not to be
a liar.”
“If someone needs a recommendation for, say, the best place to contract herpes, they’re going to hit you up every time.
Heather Baskin, she of IlluMind Design & Consulting, chief competitor of Pavelka & Gates.
late—still buckling his belt after a protracted men’s room event—and
quicksand of detail
the mark of a knowitall
“God,
got
days—but let’s just say that maybe one day I’ll be a guest on your podcast.”
sometimes in life you have to settle for the moral victory.
nope. moral victories do not help my clients.
“Money changed hands, believe me,” Charlie confided.
This hamster is graveyard dead,
“Hold that thought,” he said. “Will do, ’cause I’m totally riveted,” Charlie
Dauer. Dempsey.
Roenicke. Sakata.
probably 1920 or so—and the inmates believed that if the light from the locomotive shone into your cell, that was a sign that you were going to be set free come morning. The prisoners would all stay up late, praying that it would be their cell that night. So you see, kids, the Midnight Special is the train of redemption, and its headlight is salvation, a light that comes along in the dead of night to save you, no matter what your prison is, no matter how dark your night.” At that, he dumped his coffee into the sink and kissed Peti on the mouth. “You, Petra Kovacs, are my Midnight Special,” he
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the door he went.
“A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”
This was someone who couldn’t leave home without knowing his own blood type.
“Was your brother serving me cheap beer? I tend to bust out Walt when I’m drinking cheap beer. Now, bourbon—that brings out Emily.”
When the server with the sailboat tattoo listened and nodded but committed nothing to her pad, McGuinn grew concerned. “You’re not going to write any of this down?” he asked her. “Nope,” the server replied. “Does that make you nervous?”
“It’s just about the only thing I can think of that does make me nervous.” “Sounds like a whole lot of your problem. I’m still not going to write it down.” And she walked away.
“Less Emily Dickinson, more spitting into a cup.”
I hope he’s not in there drinking the expensive tea.
how easily he could’ve been someone else. All it would’ve taken was falling in love with someone who lived in another city or accepting a job in another state, and that would’ve changed everything.
By the same token, her boyfriend had gone to Nevada and brought her back a snow globe of the MGM lion, an afterthought of a souvenir he’d surely snagged at the airport just before catching his flight home.
very middle school ish
She’d never quite gotten used to this thing where he talked to her in kind of a baby voice, like she was a little girl.
yuck
“Is ‘writing poetry’ code for something?” “Yeah—the search for truth and beauty.”
Here goes nothing: ‘Where once she hummed from the mud, awaiting a distant
tomorrow, now she’s the tune, looking down from the moon, without a trace of sorrow.’
