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“You’re a pretty good liar”—I’m a fantastic liar—“but that’s for everybody else. Not family.”
as if he thinks I’ll go scampering back down the drive if he’s sufficiently unpleasant, as if eight years of retail hasn’t given me a spine of sugar and steel.
“You didn’t get these at Tractor Supply,” he observes.
She’s probably not even fifty, but she has the social habits and haircut of a ninety-year-old man.
maybe that’s all a good ghost story is: a way of handing out consequences to the people who never got them in real life.
Mom was always trying to turn frogs and beasts into handsome princes, but it never worked out for her. I should know better.
It’s impossible not to feel guilty, then. I’m not used to it—guilt is one of those indulgences I can’t afford, like sit-down restaurants or health insurance
“I would change your ringtone to Kid Rock and call you every day at dawn for a decade. My hand to God.”
He looks like a boy who wanted to grow flowers but was handed a sword instead.
