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“Want her?” Will cut in. “What the hell would he want with her when we have top-shelf chicks in our cars right now? Didn’t you see how she was dressed? No makeup, guys’ clothes . . . She’s a feminist
eight days later, he shows up on my mother’s doorstep. He hands her nine thousand four hundred sixty-two dollars, a Rolex, and some emerald earrings. And he takes me home with him.
“You make me feel driven. You make me hungry and on fire and wanting to slow down time instead of wanting to rush through it. It’s you I look for when I walk in the doors in the morning. Not her. You.”
He felt everything. He never shunned an emotion. Not one. He knew that letting it run its course was the only way to get rid of it. Shame. Fear. Anger. Love. Worry. Sadness. Betrayal. Guilt. He owned every single one.
