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“Reading about life isn’t the same as living it. The things you know about the real world would fit in the tip of this cane.”
“When was the last time you cared about something so much you couldn’t eat?” he demanded. “Or sleep? When have you ever felt the fire of life burn so bright that it hurts? When did you ever bother to fight for something you loved?”
“An echo with nothing and no one to call her own,” Arthur announced without preamble. Clearly, this was a subject he’d given some thought to. “A friendly facade. An empty smile. A scared little girl without an opinion of your own, latching on to other people’s bigger and brighter lives because you’re not willing to fully live your own.”
“And I’m not upset about Arthur. Not really. It’s been a long day, that’s all.” “Sloane, you’ve been here less than an hour.” “Fine. It’s been a long week.” “It’s literally Monday.”
a quiet morning with a good book was as close to paradise as I’d probably ever get.
To an untrained observer, she might have been tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, but I knew better. That was someone who’d taught herself a long time ago how to cry so no one would see.
headed out before either of them could pretend to protest. If there was one thing I’d learned in this lifetime, it was that it’s much better to be the one doing the leaving. Even when the party was still going, when there was nothing waiting for you at home but a dark house and a sink full of dirty dishes, it was important to never overstay your welcome.
“I don’t see why not. People can’t learn from their mistakes if they don’t know what their mistakes are. If I were writing a book, that’s the first thing I’d do.”
it was the nothing that said the most.
was in the way she always looked a little bit startled when someone was nice to her, as if it could be taken away at any moment. This wasn’t a girl who liked chaos. This was a girl who did everything she could to keep things on an even keel.
It was a fear I shared so deeply that I couldn’t find any words to fill the stark, sudden silence of the living room. Which was for the best, really, because a temper like Arthur’s had to be vented somewhere. Better for it to fall on the silence than on his grandson.
“Or something,” he said as he sat. His weight dragged the cushions down. “I work with kids. You won’t get anywhere with them by being sincere. Not at that age, anyway. They fight against anything that feels like real emotion.”
We bonded, in a way. Pain will do that, even if you’re the only one feeling it.”
“But we all have to go sometime—some of us sooner than others. I might as well enjoy myself in the meantime.”
Life stories were written in ink, not pencil. Once they were down, the only thing you could do was turn the page.
This world was a terrible place. It gave you people to love and then took them away before you stopped loving them. It made you mean and angry and cruel to those who needed you most. It ground you down until it was all you could do to get through the day. But most of all, it tried to convince you that you were alone in your suffering.
Life was calling to me—it had been calling to me for years—but it had taken this random, beautiful collection of people for me to realize what I had to do. It was time for me to answer.
