Here's to Us

Если кто-то говорит, что любит тебя, это не значит, что он никогда не скажет этого кому-то еще.

- Он твой бывший.

• И мой друг! Это не взаимоисключающие понятия.

Если бы любовь была деньгами, я бы не хотел тратить их все в одном месте.

Папа очень разозлился, потому что ни одна из прочитанных им статей о том, как говорить с сыном о сексе, не могла бы подготовить его к тому, что говорить, когда выясняется, что у твоего девятнадцатилетнего сына был секс с большим количеством людей, чем у тебя.

Возможно, чем больше я буду делиться с ним своим миром, тем больше он захочет стать частью моего и впустить меня в свой. Таковы все отношения. Вы начинаете ни с чего, а заканчиваете всем.

Я хочу быть с кем-то, кто не может оторваться от моих губ или чья рука всегда держит мою, как будто они никогда не должны были расставаться.

You're going to hurt someone! That's just how it is sometimes, and it sucks, but what's the alternative? Never make a real choice? Close yourself off completely? You have to be honest, at least with yourself.

"Okay, stop being morbid. First first kid is alive and healthy. And you” - I prod his arm - "need to stop rereading that YA book where everyone dies at the end."
He tips his palms up. "It's a good book."

"Here's to do-overs, right?"
"Here's to us"

People don’t warn you that heartbreak is a chronic condition. Maybe it quiets down a little over time, or you can muffle it with distance, but the ache never quite dials down to zero. It’s there lurking in the background, ready to flare back up the minute you let your guard down.

Absofuckinglutely not

Love.
It’s such an imprecise word. That’s the problem. Love means too many things. Jacob loves Taj for tracking down a bunch of budget spreadsheets. I love chocolate and Hamilton and my parents and Bubbe. I mean, it’s pretty absurd when you really think about it, right? Here I am, floundering under the weight of the big do-I-love-Mikey question, when I wouldn’t even blink if it was anyone else in my life.

My forever mood: writing is hard.

I once wondered if we were a love story or a story about love.
I now know the answer.

I really need to start learning the difference between fine and distracted.

"I'm sorry you feel so stuck here, but many people would love to be in your position."
"I know."
I'm tired of not being able to own my feelings because someone else has it worse. I know I'm lucky to have a roof over my head and parents who love me and food on the table. I know, I know, I know. I can also want more for myself.

She makes it sound like the Stone Age - but maybe it really was a whole other era. Me at sixteen, with all my high-octane feelings. I was like a human volcano. I remember every beat of that summer, everything I felt, everything I thought. It's right there, but I can't seem to climb back inside it. It almost feels like something I read in a book.

Happiness is tricky when it comes to the person who used to make you happy.

In our family, we always say that we love each other before we leave home, go to bed, hang up the phone. My parents have always made it clear that we might have some economic challenges from time to time, but we'll always be rich in love. And I get it - but if love was cash, I wouldn't
want to spend it all in the same place.