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The universe blessed me with two badass parents. Ones who would crawl through glass to get to me. I want to be that kind of mother one day. Fierce. Fearless.
I’ll take a boozy brunch with my bestie and a dirty book in bed by eight for a thousand, Alex.
Summer: Did you leave with Cade? Willa: Yeah. Summer: You could have stayed with me! We’re getting a cab. Willa: Nah. Cade’s hotter. Went home with him instead. Summer: Lol. Summer: Wait. Are you joking? I can’t tell. Willa: Save a horse, ride a cowboy. Summer: I still can’t tell.
He turns now, lips tipped down and brow furrowed. I’ve started thinking of this expression as resting scowl face—it’s just his default.
“He looks like Cowboy Batman,”
“I’ve watched you with my son. I’ve watched you, period. I’ve longed for you. I went crazy tonight thinking of you out with Lance. I know in my bones that I won’t want to let you go at the end of the summer, but I’ll take what I can get. Because you’re too fucking special to pass up. Fuck my promises,
Whoever said pregnancy is beautiful can die a fiery death, as far as I’m concerned. In recent days, I’ve gone from excited to wishing I could issue an eviction notice.
