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She still believed in love—somehow, impossibly.
Love was putting up with someone for fifty years so you’d have someone to bury you when you died.
God, I hate white men being unable to tell one Asian from another.”
It was full and heavy and drowning because it wasn’t the absence of everything you lost—it was the culmination of it all, your love, your happiness, your bittersweets, wound tight like a knotted ball of yarn.
I didn’t want anyone to go out of their way for me.
he thought I was beautiful? At my worst, selfish and needy and cold?
“How come when I told myself the same thing a thousand times I didn’t believe me, but when you say it, it feels true?” “Because I’m rarely wrong.” “You did say romance was dead.” I tilted my head, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “Aren’t you?”
“Romance isn’t a sprint, Florence. It’s a marathon. You start slow. With your blouse, one button at a time. You said I was meticulous, but I would show you just how meticulous I could be.”
“Why’s it about me at all? Why not just you? You are worthy of that.”
Because people always left. If they had a choice—they left. And Ben wanted to stay.
the sun came back around again, the way flowers browned and became dirt and new seeds bloomed the next spring. Everything died, but pieces of it remained.
I hope you never stop giving the world your words.”
And stapled to the bottom were receipts. A sob caught in my throat. They were sales from the bookstore in town. A Rake’s Guide to Getting the Girl, The Kiss at the Midnight Matinee, and The Probability of Love. He had bought them. And he knew they were mine. He knew.
“I’ve said goodbye to so many people—shouldn’t it be easy now?”
“Thank you for being here.” “Thank you for inviting me. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than beside you.”
