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When I was in high school, I used to hate that Sylvia Plath poem where she talked about knowing the bottom, that she knew it with her great taproot and that it was what everybody else feared, but she didn’t, because she’d been there. I still hate it. But I get it now. —Mac’s journal
When the walls come tumbling, tumbling down, that’s the question that matters. Who are you?
Storms of color rush under their skin. Black torques slither at their necks.
Why have they all abandoned her when she needs ‘em the most? Men. Dude, they suck.
“You’re leaving me, Rainbow Girl.”
A short time later, I was in a slightly dented Range Rover Sport. I’d swept the husks from it, trying not to look too hard at the tiniest husk as I’d unbelted and gently placed the car seat, along with a fluffy pink teddy bear and a shirt that said I ♥ Daddy, beneath a leafless oak tree.
Sobbing
Don’t confuse intensity of emotion with quality of emotion, baby, when I’d gotten tangled up with class heartbreaker Tommy Ralston. The more he’d hit on my girlfriends, the harder I’d worked to keep him. It was like I was addicted to whatever made me feel most intensely, even though it was hurting me. Pain is not love, Mac. Love makes you feel good.
“Hesitation kills,” Dani echoed like a battle cry, and punched the air with her fist.
We’re taking back the night! Let there be light. We’re not afraid anymore. You took what was mine And now it’s time For you and me to settle the score We’re taking back the night!
“As if you could,” said Barrons. “Perhaps not. But I do enjoy thinking about it.” “Bring it on, Tinker Bell.”
Tinker Bell 😂🤣
“Don’t lose yourself in anger, Mac. It’s gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you—only your body doesn’t have the good grace to quit breathing.”
“Dude,” she said finally, “I think we’re outcasts.” “Dude,” I agreed, with a sigh.
Strength wasn’t about being able to do everything alone. Strength was knowing when to ask for help and not being too proud to do it.
“This is worse than an IFP,” Dani muttered. “I feel like I’m stuck in an IFCF.” I raised a brow. “Interdimensional Fairy Cluster Fuck,” she said sourly.
Life’s an ocean, full of waves. All are dangerous. All can drown you. Under the right circumstances, even the gentlest swell can turn tidal. Hopping waves is for the weekend warrior. Choose one, ride it out. It increases your odds of survival.”
Life didn’t explode in the sunshine and pretty places. Life took the strongest root with a little bit of rain and a whole lot of shit for fertilizer.
Although love could grow in times of peace, it tempered in battle.
Daddy told me once—when I’d said something about how perfect his relationship with Mom was—that I should have seen the first five years of their marriage, that they’d fought like hellions, crashed into each other like two giant stones. That eventually they’d eroded each other into the perfect fit, become a single wall, nestled into each other’s curves an...
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I moved to the counter. A note was propped on the register. Welcome home, Ms. Lane. “Arrogant, overconfident jackass.” Keys lay on the counter beside it.
Fear translates to hesitation, and hesitation kills.
Kids grow up, move on, and find a love of their own. The empty nest shouldn’t leave parents grieving. It should leave them ready and excited to get on with living their own adventure, which would, of course, include many visits to children and grandchildren.
Beware of that evil MacKayla Lane; she’s a piece of work. Gonna doom the whole world, that wench.
“Did he bother pointing out that everything the king had done, he’d done for her? Did she think of that before she decided to kill herself? Did it ever occur to her that sometimes a willingness to turn dark for someone else might just be a fucking virtue?”
It’s funny how, when things seem the darkest, moments of beauty present themselves in the most unexpected places.
There’s a fine line between being stupid and knowing you have to test your limits if you want to do any real living at all.
It made me think that Jericho Barrons’ skin might be a slipcover for a chair I never wanted to see.
The person who truly lives has precious few moments of safety, learns to thrive in any kind of storm.
My mother’s name was Isla O’Connor.
“An old bag of rural superstitions,” he scoffed. “Brain-starved by the potato famine.” “Got the wrong century there, Barrons.” He glowered at me, appeared to be doing some math, then said, “So what? Same result. Starved by something. Reading blinds the vision, lectures deafen the ears, my ass.”
“Don’t make me live it, Barrons. Don’t choose my grief for me. You have no right.” “They aren’t your biological parents.” “Do you think the heart only follows blood?”
He was the one who’d taught me that the heart had reasons of which reason knew nothing, the only quote of Pascal’s I remembered.
My mother couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d found out I was sleeping with half the Ashford High football team and smoking crack between touchdowns.
And I had to wonder: Was this the whole point? Was it about taking everything from me there was to take? Was that what life did? Made you lose everything you cared about and believed in, then killed you? Yes, I was feeling sorry for myself.
