For You and Only You (You, #4)

by Caroline Kepnes

I never get over you, any of you.

I’m in a corner of the circle—geometry is a lie—flicking ants off my pants.

it’s amazing, how easily even the weakest of men turn women into handmaids.

“So, what do we bring to a freaking potluck?” “Coffee and cigarettes?”

they say this about people, that we criticize in others what we like least about ourselves.

But what a waste of an ambition because those jobs barely exist and criticism is all but dead.” “Um,” Glenn says. “It’s called Twitter.”

Real love is quiet. A whisper between two people.

I have never tried to control anyone in my entire life. I have only tried to help people make good decisions.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was published in 1964 and we’re still talking about it today because Roald Fucking Dahl cracked the code of people. He knew how to kill off children!

You’re projecting. You assume that because you have Your Bobby, I have some equivalent, but I’m not like you, Wonder.

The man invited you to his house and you didn’t show up. Rich, insecure people are sensitive.

THAT’S CALLED BEING A BOYFRIEND and why do women reward men for being fucked-up?

Wonder is lucky to have you, honey. You can read her. Love her. Support her. And be happy that you’re not that guy who unravels when a woman is talented, beautiful, and productive.”

They were also the first club to admit Black people and they even allow women—so appalling, what counts as progress when it comes to white privileged elites—and

You have someone who loves you, someone you love, and people don’t throw that kind of love away, at least, not on my watch they don’t.

Your face is an Arnold Palmer, half-rage, half-worry.

It’s the worst kind of enemy, a smart, accomplished woman with a clever mind,

There are no police staked outside my place—What the fuck is taking so long? This is an outrage! I confessed to multiple fucking murders!—and

You were the final girl, the one after the one, the auto to my didact.

“Oh, please. I kill a version of him in every book because I can’t kill him in real life and it’s…a pattern. A rut. I kill the same man over and over and you date the same woman over and over and when are we going to change?”

I’m not saying that all writers are demented psychopaths. I’m okay enough and Ani is more than a good egg.

Words are worse than sticks and stones. They penetrate us without drawing blood.

Wonder is your name, but I am the one full of wonder.

You don’t read because you’re in control, because you know what comes next and when. You read because you don’t know.

We were in the sweet spot, two paragraphs and eighty-nine pages into our love story, long past the introductions and oatmeal fights and the tedium of the setup. We were in the best part of the narrative, when so many pages are still yet to come, and now we’ll never know how it ends. You burned our book and I close your Prince of Tides and I open the menu and I close that, too.