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That seems the likely ending to this love story: me dropping everything and doing anything, devoted as a dog, as he takes and takes and takes.
It’s both creepy and out of my control, this ability I have to notice so much about other people when I’m positive no one notices anything at all about me.
“If there’s one thing you take away from this class, it should be that the world is made of endlessly intersecting stories, each one valid and true.”
Sometimes it feels like that’s all I’m doing every time I reach out—trying to haunt, to drag him back in time, asking him to tell me again what happened. Make me understand it once and for all. Because I’m still stuck here. I can’t move on.
“People will risk everything for a little bit of something beautiful,”
I’m starting to understand that the longer you get away with something, the more reckless
you become, until it’s almost as if you want to get caught.
When Bridget’s fiancé met me, he said just being around me felt like a kick in the balls.
“I’m never going to tell on him,” I say, “no matter how bad he is.”
The excuses we make for them are outrageous, but they’re nothing compared with the ones we make for ourselves.
When I start to drift away, her tail thumps against the couch cushion, like a drumbeat, a heartbeat, a
rhythm of grounding. You’re here, she says. You’re here. You’re here.
