Definitely Dead (Sookie Stackhouse, #6)

by Charlaine Harris

But gosh darn it, I liked him, and it always smarts when you find out you’ve been replaced with apparent ease.

But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I’d fantasized about a steady husband with a good job and benefits, a husband who came straight home after his shift and fixed broken things on his days off.

“This woman has been mine, and she will be mine,” he said, in tones so definite I thought about checking my rear end for a brand.

Was this the second body I’d found in a closet, or the third? I wondered why I even opened closet doors any more.

I had to be by myself. I could not let anyone see me suffer this much. The pain was tied up with a rage so profound that I had never felt its like. I was sick with anger and hurt.

It was time for one of my self-pep talks. I told myself sternly I’d already enjoyed a moment or two of that very evening, and I would enjoy a few more seconds of every day until I built back to my former contented state. I’d always enjoyed life, and I knew I would again. But I was going to have to slog through a lot of bad patches to get there.

While I was looking around for her, I had a moment when the heartache I was staving off just plain ambushed me. It was like the moments I had after my grandmother died, when I’d be doing something familiar like brushing my teeth, and all of a sudden the blackness would overwhelm me. It took a moment or two to collect myself and swim back to the surface again.

Pride goeth before a fall.