Brentwood Quotes

A person's character is most clearly seen not by what they show, but what they hide.

No one escapes this life without scars . . . not even God.

God created blow jobs for one reason: so men can dispense of the moronic sperm.

The bond we have, this connection, it’s what the greatest love stories are made of. It’s what I want our story to be made of.

this is almost too good to be true. I found her. My woman. My future.

.... They both professed to be atheists, but, judging by their conduct, they exhibited in their daily lives all those attributes which are fundamental to real, active Christianity. They were thoughtful for my comfort in every way, and shared many of my interests and pursuits with a zest which might well have been envied by much younger people. Together we went down to Torquay for a two-week holiday and returned to Brentwood completely refreshed.

maybe this was who Jude would have been if her mother hadn’t married a dark man. In this other life, the twins passed over together. Her mother married a white man and now she slipped out of mink coats at fancy parties, not waited tables in a country diner. In this reality, Jude was fair and beautiful, driving a red Camaro around Brentwood, her hand trailing out the window. Each night, she strutted onstage, beaming, tossing back her golden hair while the world applauded.

Truth is a gem to be admired.

Ehhh, that was a little harsh. But before you go and put your judgy face on, you need to know the difference between a nagging mom and a meddling mom.

No rambling about how I believe the Brentwood Boys book series should be made into a made-for-TV drama, preferably streamed on HBO or Netflix for max nudity purposes.

comin’ straight outta Brentwood, a cadre of young stars who’ve grown up deprived of deprivation trying to transform themselves into street toughs by forming ““gangs”” so devoid of street cred it’s necessary to put the word in two sets of quotes. What kind of criminal activity are they engaged in? Script laundering? Agent smuggling? Film miscasting? Who knows. They think they have a posse when what they really have is a pose.

their suburbia house in Brentwood" was how she referred to the house when we bought it, a twelve-year-old establishing that it was not her decision, not her taste, a child claiming the distance all children imagine themselves to need.

One day in 1948 or 1949, the Brentwood County Mart, a shopping complex in an upscale neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, was the scene of a slight disturbance that carried overtones of the most spectacular upheaval in twientieth-century music. Marta Feuchtwanger, wife of émigré novelist Lion Feuchtwanger, was examining grapefruit in the produce section when she heard a voice shouting German from the far end of the aisle. She looked up to see Arnold Schoenberg, the pioneer of atonal music and the codifier of twelve-tone composition, bearing down on her, with his bald pate and burning eyes. Decades later, in conversation with the writer Lawrence Weschler, Feuchtwanger could recall every detail of the encounter, including the weight of the grapefruit in her hand. “Lies, Frau Marta, lies!” Schoenberg was yelling. “You have to know, I never had syphilis!

Looking at this picture, I am struck by how beautiful my parents were together. James and Angela. I know what it cost them to build a life, to have me. A white woman and a black man in the early ’80s, neither of their families being particularly thrilled with the arrangement. We moved around a lot before my father died, trying to find a neighborhood where my parents felt at ease, at home. My mother didn’t feel welcome in Baldwin Hills. My father didn’t feel comfortable in Brentwood. I was in school before I met another person who looked like me. Her name was Yael. Her father was Dominican, and her mother was from Israel. She liked to play soccer. I liked to play dress-up. We could rarely agree on anything. But I liked that when someone asked her if she was Jewish, she said, “I’m half Jewish.” No one else I knew was half something. For so long, I felt like two halves. And then my father died, and I felt like I was one-half my mother and one-half lost. A half that I feel so torn from, so incomplete without. But looking at this picture now, the three of us together in 1986, me in overalls, my father in a polo, my mother in a denim jacket, we look like we belong together. I don’t look like I am half of one thing and half of another but rather one whole thing, theirs. Loved.

Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy slope of country, one of the richest in Scotland, which lies between the Pentland Hills and the Firth. In clear weather you could see the blue gleam-like a bent bow, embracing the wealthy fields and scattered houses of the great estuary on one side of you; and on the other the blue heights, not gigantic like those we had been used to, but just high enough for all the glories of the atmosphere, the play of clouds, and sweet reflections, which give to a hilly country an interest and a charm which nothing else can emulate. Edinburgh, with its two lesser heights - the Castle and the Calton Hill - its spires and towers piercing through the smoke, and Arthur's Seat lying crouched behind, like a guardian no longer very needful, taking his repose beside the well-beloved charge, which is now, so to speak, able to take care of itself without him - lay at our right hand. From the lawn and drawing-room windows we could see all these varieties of landscape. The colour was sometimes a little chilly, but sometimes, also, as animated and full of vicissitude as a drama. I was never tired of it. Its colour and freshness revived the eyes which had grown weary of arid plains and blazing skies. It was always cheery, and fresh, and full of repose. ("The Open Door")

If there’s one thing I learned from being the only girl in my family, it was this. Do not give boys an inch, because they will always take a mile.

A man never reveals his true feelings after the fourth encounter. Don’t you know anything about love arcs?

Who’s to say I’m going to see you again?” “Me.” I take out my phone, unlock it, and hand it to her. “Enter your phone number so I can bug you with texts.

I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be your boyfriend, your goddamn forever.” His hands drive up my sides, holding my ribs, holding on to me tightly. “I want you forever, Em.

Of course God was listening—but that didn’t mean God would answer in an agreeable fashion.

I’ve found that God is more than enough, even in the direst of situations

There’s something to be said for someone who doesn’t talk very much. When they speak, their words hold more of a punch than ever expected.

I had to find Mr. Brentwood. And I had to save him. Zeus, Inc. had saved the world 50 years ago when we had depleted our energy resources. The very same Zeus, Inc. that now powered a majority of the known world. And that power had come from the man himself. Without him? We would all be plunged into total darkness, knocked back to the literal dark ages. Chaos could and probably would ensue.

Looking at this picture, I am struck by how beautiful my parents were together. James and Angela. I know what it cost them to build a life, to have me. A white woman and a black man in the early ’80s, neither of their families being particularly thrilled with the arrangement. We moved around a lot before my father died, trying to find a neighborhood where my parents felt at ease, at home. My mother didn’t feel welcome in Baldwin Hills. My father didn’t feel comfortable in Brentwood

I’ve applied to Brentwood every semester since I was a freshman. My mom fought me on it at first, but I think at this point she’s resigned herself to the fact that I’m never going to get in, so she just signs the forms without arguing. I mean, it’s Brentwood, so to get accepted you not only have to dance like you’re in Black Swan and belt out a B over high C like it’s a middle G and cry on cue through a memorized six thousand lines of Shakespeare, but you have to do it all at once, while having a 4.0 and forking over a hundred thousand dollars and giving the admissions director a blow job, apparently, but once you’re in, you’re in, it’s Brentwood then Juilliard then fame and fortune, and even if not, it’s New York City, baby, and the most important part of this equation is Brooklyn Bridge at midnight and tiny dogs in Chelsea and the Staten Island Ferry and that ex-girlfriend (don’t think about that, should I think about that?) and the answer to the goddamn equation is the absolute value of not Nebraska.

As Sandy and his wife warmed to the tale, one tripping up another in their eagerness to tell everything, it gradually developed as distinct a superstition as I ever heard, and not without poetry and pathos. How long it was since the voice had been heard first, nobody could tell with certainty. Jarvis's opinion was that his father, who had been coachman at Brentwood before him, had never heard anything about it, and that the whole thing had arisen within the last ten years, since the complete dismantling of the old house: which was a wonderfully modern date for a tale so well authenticated. According to these witnesses, and to several whom I questioned afterwards, and who were all in perfect agreement, it was only in the months of November and December that "the visitation" occurred. During these months, the darkest of the year, scarcely a night passed without the recurrence of these inexplicable cries. Nothing, it was said, had ever been seen - at least nothing that could be identified. Some people, bolder or more imaginative than the others, had seen the darkness moving, Mrs Jarvis said with unconscious poetry. ("The Open Door")

Ten years later . . . “Dude, you look like shit,” Carson says, clapping me on the shoulder. “This is my best sweater, and it’s supposed to make me look devastatingly handsome.” “It’s olive green,” Carson says with a question in his raised eyebrow. “Leave me alone.” I rest my head on the counter. “It’s been ten years since my heart was broken and it still aches.” “Ten years?” Carson laughs. “It’s been ten fucking days.” Ten days later (That’s right, sorry about that) . . . “Iknow, but ten days has felt like ten years. And I thought wearing my green sweater to Friendsgiving would be a nice pick-me-up but you just peed all over that idea.” “Does anyone like this sweater besides you?” “I get a lot of once-overs whenever I wear it. I think it’s how the color brings out my delicate green eyes.” “Or it’s the cross-stitched mountain range on the front.” I glance at my sweater and then rub my fingers over the cross-stitch. “I used to pretend it was brail and it would read, ‘You’re handsome, always have been, always will be.’” “I don’t understand how we’re friends.” Carson shakes his head. “Running pole-to-pole suicides at Brentwood together formed an unbreakable bond.” “God, you’re right.” 

Milly stops, turns to Carson, and even though her cheeks are blushing she says, “You’re going to make me puke with all your innuendo. Is that what you want, Carson? For me to puke?” “If she pukes, I puke.” Jason raises his hand, looking concerned. “You know how sensitive I am to vomit. Total trigger for me.

On June 18, five hours after he had talked to his cousin Bill Hapscomb, Joe Bob Brentwood pulled down a speeder on Texas Highway 40 about twenty-five miles east of Arnette. The speeder was Harry Trent of Braintree, an insurance man. He had been doing sixty-five miles per in a fifty-mile-an-hour zone. Joe Bob gave him a speeding ticket. Trent accepted it humbly and then amused Joe Bob by trying to sell him insurance on his house and his life. Joe Bob felt fine; dying was the last thing on his mind. Nevertheless, he was already a sick man. He had gotten more than gas at Bill Hapscomb’s Texaco. And he gave Harry Trent more than a speeding summons. Harry, a gregarious man who liked his job, passed the sickness to more than forty people during that day and the next. How many those forty passed it to is impossible to say—you might as well ask how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. If you were to make a conservative estimate of five apiece, you’d have two hundred. Using the same conservative formula, one could say those two hundred went on to infect a thousand, the thousand five thousand, the five thousand twenty-five thousand. Under the California desert and subsidized by the taxpayers’ money, someone had finally invented a chain letter that really worked. A very lethal chain letter.

She tilts her head to the side after taking a sip of her tea, studying us. “You know, I can’t get over how beautiful you two are together. One of those couples you love to follow on Instagram, you know, the really cute ones that are so sickening in love that you can’t get enough of them.” Way to drop the love bomb, Mom. Jesus. Thankfully Emory doesn’t show any kind of hatred for the term but instead says, “Like Jennifer Lopez and A-Rod?” “Yes,” my mom answers with excitement. “Oh my gosh, I’m obsessed with watching their stories. The little videos they do together, I just can’t get enough of them. J-Rod,” my mom says dreamily. “Oh gosh, what would your couple name be?” She thinks about it for a second. “Emox . . . or Knemory. Oh I love Knemory. Sounds so poetic.” “Knemory does have a nice ring to it,” I add. “I don’t know, what about Emorox?” “Ohhh, that sounds like a name that belongs in The Game of Thrones.” Taking on a more masculine voice, my mom says, “Look out, Jon, Emorox is coming over the hill, with her fire-spitting dragons, Knemory and George.” “George?” Emory laughs out loud, covering her mouth. “Why George?” “Well, look at the names they have in that show? They’re all exotic names you’ve never heard before—Cersei, Gregor, Arya—and then in waltzes good old Jon Snow. It’s only fair that the dragons have a lemon in the bunch as well.” “Uh, Jon is anything but a lemon, Mom,” I defend. “He was raised from the dead.” My mom’s mouth drops, pure and utter shock in her face. “Jon Snow dies?” Shit. Emory elbows my stomach. “Where the hell is your GOT etiquette? You never talk about the facts of the show until the air is cleared about how far someone is in watching. You are one of those people who spoils everything for someone just catching up to the trend.” *Ahem* “I mean . . . uh . . . he doesn’t die.” “You just said he is raised from the dead,” my mom says. Feeling guilty, I reply, “Well, at least he’s still alive, right?” She slumps against the cushion of the couch and mutters, “Unbelievable.” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentry, that your son is a barbarian and broke your GOT trust.” Pressing her hand against her forehead, my mom says, “You know, I blame myself. I thought I taught him a shred of decorum, I guess not.” “Don’t blame yourself,” Emory coos. “You did everything right. It comes down to the hooligans he hangs out with. There’s only so much you can control after they leave the nest.” “You’re absolutely right,” my mom agrees and leans across the couch to smack me in the back of the head. “Hey,” I complain while rubbing the sore spot. I look between the two women in my life and I say, “I don’t like this ganging up on me shit.” “You wanted us to get along, right?” Emory asks. “Well, I happen to like your mom, especially since she complimented my bosom.” “Ah, I see.” I continue to look between the two of them. “You’re okay with my mom catching you with your shirt off now, moved past the embarrassment?” Emory’s eyes narrow. “With that kind of attitude, it might be the very last time you see me topless.” My mom raises her fist to the air, as if to say, “Girl Power.” And then she says, “You tell him, Emory. Don’t let him push you around.” “I wasn’t pushing her around—” “You keep that beautiful bosom under lock and key, and if you have a temptation to show anyone, just flash me.” “Mom, do you realize how wrong that is?” “Want to go to the bathroom right now, Mrs. Gentry?” “I would be delighted to.” They both stand but before they can make a move, I pull on Emory’s hand, bringing her back down to my lap. “No way in hell is that happening. Jesus, what is wrong with you?

and on the verge of

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Something big happens in your life, and you wonder if they were here with us, what would they say? How big would their smile be? What kind of pride would they have in their heart for you?

Oat milk? Explain to me where an oat has a goddamn nipple.

It’s a life-changing gasp, just like that was a life-changing kiss.

I pretend to think about it. “You know, wouldn’t hurt to lose an inch; maybe I ought to get a manicure, after all.

Intentions can be genuine, but the soul can also be greedy.

I might have a busy schedule and obligations, but there’s one thing I know with absolute certainty: when I’m invested in something, I don’t ever drop the ball.

Little did they know that the case would hold media interest for just one day. The next night, the ex-wife of football great and not-so-great actor O. J. Simpson would be found murdered along with an acquaintance in Brentwood, and that would suck all media attention away from the Pearlman case as well as everything else in the city.

stands,

I fucking heard you. You touched her collarbone, and you’re acting like you had access to her nipples? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Knuckles to balls. Fist to family jewels.

February 11: Actress Edith Evanson visits Marilyn’s Brentwood home to work on the Swedish accent Marilyn is to use for her disguise as a maid in Something’s Got to Give, an identity Marilyn’s character adopts when returning home to her husband, who presumes she has died in an air crash. “Everything was dark, heavy and depressing. It had a creepy feeling about it but I thought nothing of it because she talked of her plans for decorating and especially landscaping,” Evanson told biographer Keith Badman. Marilyn pleaded with the actress to join her on a flight that day to New York, but Evanson had family responsibilities.

March 31: Joe spends the night at Marilyn’s Brentwood home.

January 29: A deposit of $5,750 ($5,000 of which is borrowed from Joe DiMaggio) is paid to secure the Brentwood home that Eunice Murray found. It is built like a Mexican hacienda. Dr. Greenson accompanies Marilyn on her first visit to the home. In need of repair, the house, with its red-tiled roof, stucco walls, cathedral ceilinged sitting room, small solarium, three bedrooms, and kidney-shaped pool, appeals to Marilyn. It is well-landscaped and only ten minutes from the Fox studios. Over the front entrance, on Mexican tiles, appears this legend: Cursum Perficio (My Journey Ends Here).

February 10: In a four-hour afternoon shoot, Rizzo captures Marilyn in close-up and in various positions on a lounger and at the edge of her Brentwood home pool. He later said she seemed “immensely sad . . . and that sadness was very visible in the pictures.

February 8: Newcomb calls Rizzo to postpone the shoot. Marilyn was tired and planning to move into her new home soon, Newcomb explains. But another appointment is set for the next afternoon. Marilyn’s Brentwood home is purchased with a fifteen-year mortgage at 6.5 percent interest, with payments of $320 a month. Marilyn arranges to have a new kitchen built for $1,393.46.

There is no strength without unity.

One day in 1948 or 1949, the Brentwood Country Mart, a shopping complex in an upscale neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, was the scene of a slight disturbance that carried overtones of the most spectacular upheaval in twentieth century music. Marta Feuchtwanger, wife of the émigré novelist lion Feuchtwanger, was examining grapefruit in the produce section when she heard a voice shouting in German from the far end of the aisle. She looked up to see Arnold Schoenberg, the pioneer of atonal music and the codifier of twelve-tone composition, bearing down on her, with his bald pate and burning eyes. Decades later, in conversation with the writer Lawrence Weschler, Feuchtwanger could recall every detail of the encounter, including the weight of the grapefruit in her hand. 'Lies, Frau Marta, lies!' Schoenberg was yelling. 'You have to know, "I never had syphilis!

The rain continued through Monday morning and slowed Bosch’s drive into Brentwood to a frustrating crawl. It wasn’t heavy rain, but in Los Angeles any rain at all can paralyze the city. It was one of the mysteries Bosch could never fathom. A city largely defined by the automobile yet full of drivers unable to cope with even a mild inclemency.

The line went dead as I checked the mirror. The blue Dodge was back, but didn’t stay long. It appeared twice more, never closer than three or four cars, and I never picked out the cars that replaced it. I wouldn’t have known the Dodge was following me if they hadn’t jumped the red. Jumping the red had cost them. I passed UCLA and the National Cemetery in Westwood, and reached Brentwood when Pike texted. HERE Pike, saying he was ready. 12OUT Me, saying I was twelve minutes away. Kenter Canyon was a narrow box canyon in the foothills of Brentwood above Sunset. The canyon was dense with upscale homes, but higher, beyond the houses, the hills were undeveloped, and thick with scrub oak and brush. Unpaved roads and trails had been cut for fire crews, and were open to hikers and runners. Pike and I ran the trails often, and knew the canyon well. A single, innocuous residential street led into the canyon, and appeared to be the only way to enter or leave. Smaller streets branched and re-branched from this larger street as it wound its way higher, but the smaller streets appeared trapped in the canyon. This wasn’t true, but the convoluted route using these smaller back streets wasn’t easily found. Pike and I knew this way, and another, but I was betting the tail cops behind me didn’t, and wouldn’t, until I was already gone. I

I wanted to be able to talk about my work at the dinner table and hold my head up on Sundays when my wife and I led our children into the Brentwood Presbyterian Church, where I was an elder. I did have a wild side, and I showed it every time I walked through the front door and my littlest child, Carrie Beth, made me dance to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’s hit song “Tijuana Sauerkraut.

An investment is tax inefficient if it relies heavily on investment income, instead of its price movement.

I love you, John.” It was the only time in his life he’d heard that sweet utterance. Those four little words were to be the making and undoing of John Barrington: the source of his greatest happiness and deepest sorrows.

We were all three sitting in the spa, and the millennials were discussing multimillion-dollar real estate like middle-aged men in Brentwood.

Then you talk it through. It’s when she stops wanting to talk that you’ll need to worry.” She pauses, takes a sip of her cocktail. “Trust me.

Since they’re in dog country, both the Redds and the Bleus have dogs. But they do own different types. The fixed family chose their dog based on its size and its capacity to be trained. Big dogs with a loud bark are well suited to scare off would-be thieves. Even though Brentwood has a vanishingly low crime rate, people who see the world as a dangerous place can’t be too careful. (Those differences in wariness help explain, incidentally, why the Redds keep a gun in a lockbox, while the Bleus find the idea of a gun in the home to be anathema.) For owners with a fixed worldview, large and untrained is a bad combination, however, so obedience is an important characteristic in dogs. When they are out for a walk, the Redds’ dog, Rex, follows close at James’s heels. When he’s inside, Rex knows where he doesn’t belong, namely on the furniture. Man’s best friend gets a smack on the nose when he tries to get up on the couch. The notion of him sleeping in the same bed as James and Mary is a nonstarter.

Porque la reconocería en cualquier parte. La conocería en Brentwood y la conocería en Positano. La conocería a los sesenta, a los dieciséis y a los treinta, tal como la tengo hoy frente a mí.

Our hypothetical “day in the life” of a prototypical fixed-worldview family and a typically fluid one begins with both households getting ready for work and school. Out in Brentwood, James and Mary Redd have three kids, two of whom are in elementary school and one not yet school-age. In the city, Finn and Phoebe Bleu have only one child. This simplest of differences reflects a marked fertility gap between conservatives and liberals.

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The sitting area at Griffin Concierge Medical in Tampa, Florida, has the vibe of an upscale bed-and-breakfast, with sunlight casting through double-hung windows onto warm hardwood floors. Nashville’s Brentwood MD feels more like a wealthy man’s living room, with a wide, brown leather sofa and an expensive-looking wooden coffee table with photo books.

The world is the same in any generation, and human life is the same. Good and bad are the same. Kicking over pleasant helpful rules and running wild doesn't change results.

I swear to the Lord Himself, I nearly faint. Feeling wobbly, I take a seat, unable to believe just how sexy this entire sport is. Diving men, rippling muscles, the element of surprise. How have I never spent any time watching baseball before?

What kind of crap is that? Basic torture from the screenwriters.

You know her parents are lawyers? Entertainment lawyers. Fantastically rich, huge house in Brentwood, working all the time, no discernible emotional life whatsoever.

No, she was my courage. How could I possibly call her . . . without her?

Last time you were here, I thought I was wiping my face with the hand towel but it was your lacey underwear.” Maddox Paige

And what would make them not worth our time?

I try to hide my reaction, the joy pumping through my veins, the smile that wants to spread across my face, or the fist pump I want to give the sky. I hold back the “thank fuck” on the tip of my tongue and the idiotic jig my feet want to partake in, because it’s not an appropriate reaction.

Oh . . . nice try.” She gives me a get real look. “I’m not about to go dance with a bunch of people when I can easily dance in my seat and still beat you at bingo. You’re just trying to get the competition out of your way. I see right through you, Cory Potter.

Sweetie, being scared about new things is how the human body works, but just because you’re scared doesn’t mean it should stop you. Fear should be a propellant to move you forward, not hold you back.

his cock and start to pump while sucking a little harder on his balls. “Yes, don’t be shy. Suck them hard, babe.” My bet

It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to nothing – closed once, perhaps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded, now void of any meaning.

What’s so funny?” She chuckles too, my laughter contagious. “Seriously, Cory.” She pushes at my shoulder. “What’s so funny?

I have a baseball barnacle attached to me.

You really live in the dorms?” He hands me a napkin and then pops open the donut box between us. An impromptu meetup. I can’t say it doesn’t put a smile on my face. “Yes, what’s wrong with that?” “Nothing, I just don’t know many juniors who still live in the dorms, that’s all.” “Oh, well, Lindsay and Dottie didn’t want to live in some skeezy place off campus, and since these were brand-new dorms, with all the amenities and a dining hall, seemed like a win-win. Don’t have to make food, we have maid service every Tuesday, and we don’t have to buy things like toilet paper.” “Damn.” He leans back on the bench and splits the first donut in half—cherry lemonade—and hands it to me. “I’ve gone about this living situation all wrong. I have my own roll of toilet paper in my room that I keep hidden and take in and out of the bathroom with me, because no one ever refills the roll. Toilet paper is sacred in the loft.” “You’re a smart man, Knox Gentry.” His brows lift in surprise. “Yeah, you think so?” “Don’t get too excited, you’re just smart enough in my eyes to carry around your own toilet paper.” He winks at me. “It’s the basic survival skills that are the most impressive.

Did you get the little package from me? It’s nothing like what you gave me, but it’s something.” “I did. I love the cookies, fucking good. I was kind of hoping you were going to slip a pair of panties in there for me, something I could hold on to when I fall asleep at night.” “I would never do that.” “Not even a little thong?” “No.” “Come on.” I smile at her. “Loosen up, babe.” “There is no way in hell I will ever send you panties in the mail. What if the package gets lost, then some creep is going to have my underwear hanging on his wall where he stares at it every night while gripping his crooked penis. No, thank you.” “There are so many things wrong with that sentence, too many to ask about, but I do need to know one thing.” “What’s that?” Her smile is so damn contagious. “The panties, how are they hung up on the wall? Duct tape? Push pins? Nail?” She doesn’t answer right away, just blinks a few times. Finally she asks, “What is wrong with you?” “I’m going to take that as duct tape.

Knox: Yo. Oh wow . . . how prolific. I chuckle, wondering what I was thinking, as if he was going to open with recited poetry or something. He is a “horny college student” after all—his words, not mine. Shaking my head, I type back. Emory: You have one chance to make a good first impression in student chat and you open with yo? I expected more from you. Knox: I wasn’t going to waste a good opening on the possibility of you not accepting my chat. Emory: Does that mean you have a secondary opening? Knox: Obviously. Emory: Do I get to read it? Knox: I don’t know. I’m trying to decide if you’re worthy or not. Emory: You’re the one who messaged me. I can sign out anytime I want. Knox: You’re fucking brutal. Fine . . . ahem, here it goes; What’s up? I laugh out loud, hating that he so easily entertains me. What a doofus. Emory: Wow, I think you just blew my socks off. Knox: See why I saved it? Can’t waste that shit on just anyone. Emory: I hope you keep that opening a secret. Can you imagine the number of socks that would be flying off feet all over campus? It’s dangerous. Knox: Lethal. Emory: I’m glad you saved it for me. I’m indebted to you. Knox: Really? ((Rubs hands together)) Should I cash in now? Emory: I’m clearly kidding. Knox: Nope, I have it in writing ^^^ right up there. You’re indebted to me. So I’m cashing in. Emory: “Cash in” all you want, still doesn’t mean I’m going to do whatever you ask. Knox: Stubborn woman. Emory: ^^That’s winning you friends. Knox: Come to the party tonight. Emory: Just jumping right into it, are you? Knox: There is no theme. It’s just to have fun. We have beer and some mixed drinks, and I can even offer you some pretzels. Emory: Wow, you paint a beautiful evening. The pretzels are a real winning attribute. Knox: I was going to save this as a last-ditch effort but since I think I might have you hooked with the pretzels, I’m going to bring my offer home and let you in on a little secret; just bought a fresh packet of Oreos. So if you play your cards right, you could be separating Oreos with me tonight. Emory: Seriously? Oreos, how RARE! Well, then I must go because . . . Oreos. Knox: Really? You’re coming? Emory: No. Have a good night, Knox. I shut the computer before he can respond and smile to myself as I look over to my closet, debating what I should wear tonight.

Keep it in your pants, Gentry,” Coach says, making me chuckle. “It’s a possibility, but you have to continue to work hard, don’t let up, and don’t settle.” “I won’t, Coach, you know I won’t. I’m the first one to show up for practice and the last one to leave. I spend more hours in the batting cages than anyone, I practically have a marriage with one of the batting tees.” “I do recall you proposed to it last year.” “She’s been so loyal, I had to do something.” He shakes his head and then pushes a few papers around on his desk. “Enough with the bullshit. Stay focused, set a good example, and show the underclassmen what it takes to make it to the majors.” “I can do that.

Bud Light?” she asks in a distasteful tone. “Did you think you would be getting a microbrew? It’s a college house.” “Still”—she takes a sip and cringes—“I thought you’d have a little more class.” “You’re giving me too much credit.” I nod my head toward the corner of the loft where there are less people. When she doesn’t initially follow me, I turn back around, grab her hand like I had to in class, and pull her across the loft until we’re settled in the corner. I lean against the wall and prop one leg behind me. She eyes me, giving me a full once-over. I do the same. She’s damn hot, and I’m regretting my actions last Saturday, passing out mid grope. Finally she says, “You seem to have lost your shirt.” She motions with her finger over my bare chest. I look down at her legs and reply, “Must be where the other half of your skirt is.” “Think they’re making out in a laundromat somewhere?” She takes a sip of her beer and cringes again. A few more sips and she’ll get used to it; always happens for me. “If they are, I hope they use the gentle cycle.” Her brow pulls together. “Not sure if that makes sense.” “Oh, because half of a skirt and a shirt making out in a laundromat does?” “In children’s books, sure.” “What kind of perverted children’s books did you read growing up?” I counter. “You know, the classics,” she answers causally. “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Skirt and Shirt, Lovers for Life.” “Ah, yes, I forgot about that passionate yet eye-opening youth literature that took the New York Times by storm.” “I have five signed first-edition copies in a box in my parents’ attic. Banking on them to clear out my student loans.” She sips her beer, flips her hair behind her shoulder, glances at my chest again. “Five?” I answer sarcastically. “Damn, forget college loans, you’re set for life.” “You think?” She glances around. “What the hell am I doing here then?” “To see me of course,” I answer with a smile. She rolls her eyes. “More like dragged to this party because my roommate has a crush on one of your freshmen.” “Yeah, which one?” I look over her head, eyeing all the partygoers. “No idea, but apparently he has amazing blue eyes.” “Amazing, huh? Has to be Gunner. I was even stunned by his eyes when he was recruited.” No joke, the dude won the lottery for irises. I’m even jealous with how . . . aqua they are. “Not ashamed to admit that?” she asks, shifting on her heels. “Not even a little.

But alas, I’m here, drunk off my ass, boobs practically spilling out of my shirt, and my mascara slowly melting off my eyelashes and onto my face, morphing me from new-in-town college girl, to trash panda from the raccoon clan. “Dottie, Lindsay,” I say weakly, moving my head from side to side. “Where art thou?” “You need help?” a deep voice slurs next to me. I look to my right through very blurry vision and make out what I’m going to assume is an incredibly attractive man. But then again, I’m drunk—the whole mascara melting off my eyes in full swing—and I’ve been fooled once before. But hey, I think those are blue eyes. Can’t go wrong with that . . . reasoning that will be thought better of in the morning. “Have you seen Dottie or Lindsay?” “Can’t say that I have,” he answers, resting against the wall with me. “Damn it. I think they’re making out with some baseball players. Have you seen any of those around?” “Baseball players?” “Mm-hmm.” I nod, shutting my eyes for a second but then shooting them back open when I feel myself wobble to the side. The guy catches me by the hand before I topple over, but thanks to his alcohol intake, he’s not steady enough to hold us up and . . . timber . . . we fall to the couch next to me. “Whoa, great placement of furniture,” I say, as the guy topples on top of me. “Damn near saved our lives.” I rub my face against the scratchy and worn-out fabric. “How many people do you think have had sex on this thing?” “Probably less than what you’re thinking.” The couch is deep, giving me enough room to lie on my side with the guy in front of me, so we’re both facing each other. He smells nice, like vodka and cupcakes. “So, have you seen any baseball players around? I’m looking for my friends.” “Nah, but if you see any, let me know. I can’t find my room.” “You live here?” I ask, eyes wide. “Yup,” he answers, enunciating the P. “For two years now.” “And you don’t remember where your room is?” “It has a yellow door. If the damn room would stop spinning I’d be able to find it.” “Well . . . maybe if we find your room, we’ll find my friends,” I say, my drunk mind making complete sense. “That’s a great idea.” He rolls off the couch and then stands to his feet, wobbling from side to side as he holds out his hand to me. Without even blinking, I take it in mine and let him help me to my feet. “Yellow door, let’s go,” I say, raising my crumpled cup to the air. “We’re on the move.” He keeps my hand clasped in his and we stumble together past beer pong, people making out against walls, the kitchen, to an open space full of doors. “Yellow door, do you see one?” I blink a few times and then see a flash of sunshine. “There.” I point with force. “Yellow, right there.” His head snaps to where I’m pointing. A beam of light illuminates the color of the door, making it seem like we’re about to walk right into the sun. I’m a little chilly, so I welcome the heat. “Fuck, there it is. You’re good.” 

He can’t see me like this. Holey sweatpants are one thing, but avocado face and roller head is an entirely different image that should only be shared after marriage, when there is no escaping.

An agenda that they believe benefits their children. But it really benefits them . . . and only them.

Cecilia knelt down and fixed her clasped hands on the pew in front. At the end of the prayer, she quickly added, “And help me to concentrate on the sermon, not on the vicar’s figure! Amen!

I could play many types of characters on camera, but all were, in some way, going to be variations of me, and I was conscious of who I was. I wasn’t a prude or a goody two-shoes, but I was, in many ways, still the boy my mother praised for being good, and though older and more complex, I was content with remaining that good boy. I wanted to be able to talk about my work at the dinner table and hold my head up on Sundays when my wife and I led our children into the Brentwood Presbyterian Church, where I was an elder.

What the hell, man?” Jason says, hobbling over to me while holding his ass. “You know I have junk in the trunk and it’s harder for me to keep up.

Jamie stared at the file open on her screen, at the names of his parents. Kevin and Margaret Hammond.  The address was in the good part of Brentwood. An expensive area.  You’d have to be well-off to live there. A picture was forming in her head. Hard-working parents neglect their son for their careers. He rebels, lashes out, resents the private schooling, the luxury of his life. Starts mixing with the wrong crowd. Wouldn’t mum and dad just hate it if I got a tattoo? If I went out with this girl? If I tried heroin.  She was gripping her phone hard, seeing it play out in her head.  She knew it was possible. Easy even. Her own father had been an addict her whole life and she’d not known until she was in her early teens. Until then, she thought her dad was superman. Catching bad guys by day, devoted father and husband by night. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

I take a step in as she shuts the door behind me. Still unsure what to do, I stand in her tiny entryway, hands stuffed in my pockets. She’s the first to talk. “I watched the game.” She glances at the ground. “Congrats on the win.” “Thanks. I did nothing to contribute.” “You got hit by a pitch, that’s something.” Shit, I hate that she makes me chuckle. “My grandma could stand there and do that.” “Bet she wouldn’t have been able to walk it off though. Probably would have ended up with a cracked rib and a concussion, out for two weeks.” I shake my head. “Don’t be fucking witty right now.

I give her another once-over, taking in her long, toned legs, her smooth stomach, thankfully visible due to her why-bother-wearing-me top. Her body is drop-dead gorgeous, but when you reach her eyes, they speak nothing of vixen, rather more like pure innocence. A total contradiction that has my mind reeling. “So, what are you supposed to be? A cat?” She glances at her outfit and sighs, taking another sip of her beer. She almost seems bored to be at the party. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be a panther but my roommates fell short in the costume department.” “Yeah, really short,” I add, eyeing her barely-there skirt. “Please tell me you’re wearing something under that.” “Nope,” she answers, sipping her beer and then smacking her lips. “I like to feel the wind in my undercarriage when I’m walking.” I wince. “Undercarriage? Fuck, I don’t want you to call it that.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m not a lady of the night, Knox. Of course I have something under this skirt.” She lifts up the side, flashing tiny black boy shorts. “Honestly, I’m going to be a librarian. I need to be sensible.” Sensible? More like hot as fuck. I saw partial ass cheek. I grip my beer close to my mouth and take a deep breath. “A sensible librarian wouldn’t flash a horny college guy her underwear.” “Well, maybe I’m more of a modern-day librarian then.” She winks and starts to walk away. “Hey, where are you going?” She looks over her shoulder. “I have more people to flash. Don’t think you’re the only lucky one.” Damn, that doesn’t sit well with me. Not one fucking bit.

Without failure, none of us would be able to move forward. Failure is what propels us to the next chapter of our lives,

Marriage is a lifelong commitment. Do not run headlong through a door that will lock tight behind you, without first discovering what’s on the other side.

A person’s character is most clearly seen not by what they show, but what they hide.

before I knew what I was doing, I walked

be

If you say her brother, I’m going to fucking scream.” Carson closes his mouth and slowly reaches for his water. “She sent it to him, didn’t see?” Carson doesn’t say anything. “Carson, just tell me, did she? Did she send it to my idol? My hero. My number-one man? Cory Fucking Potter?” Carson clears his throat. “I think you know the answer to that question.” I place my head in my hand. “Why is life so unfair?” “Blame yourself and your late-night shopping,” Knox says. Sighing, I say, “Can I admit something?” “Please do,” Carson says with a grin. “I’ve made them every goddamn weekend ever since. They’re the best waffles I’ve ever had.” Carson and Knox both bust out in laughter. “And you know what?” I jab the table with my finger. “I’m man enough to admit liking penis waffles. They’re fucking delicious and there’s no shame in eating a phallic breakfast on the weekends.

This is why I’ve put off brunch for this long,” Knox says, gesturing toward me. “Because of this.” “I should have had brunch at my place,” I say. “I would have made you some waffles and proven to you that penis waffles are superior.” “You don’t know that.” Carson casually sips his water. “Have you ever tried a pussy-shaped waffle?” I go to answer and then pause. “Huh, you know, I wonder if it would be better?” “Only one way to find out,” Knox says. I point at him. “You’re right.” I take out my phone and search for a female counterpart to my waffle maker. “While he’s doing that,” Knox says, “Can I ask how you’ve been doing?” “Fine,” I say. “A little gassy lately, but I think it’s from the ice cream intake I’ve had this week.” “I’m not asking you, you moron,” Knox says. “I’m asking Carson.

You’re not going to have kids?” Carson asks. “I would have thought you needed someone to carry on the famous Orson Ass.” I pause, my mind reeling. Holy. Fuck. “Hell, I didn’t even think about that.” I grip my forehead in distress. “Great, look what you just did,” Knox says while I pick up my phone to text Dottie. “Don’t text Dottie, Carson was just being a dick.” “No, this is not something we considered. We need to talk about this, right away.” I excuse myself from the table and weave my way through the restaurant until I find a quiet corner near the bathrooms. I dial “Bae’s” phone number and wait impatiently for her to answer. “Hey, aren’t you are at brunch with the boys?” she asks when she answers. “Dottie, we didn’t talk about something really important and now I’m freaking the fuck out.” “What did we not talk about?” she calmly asks. “You know that conversation we had awhile back about not having any kids?” “Yesss,” she drags out. I glance around to make sure no one is listening to me, stuff my hand in my pocket and quietly ask, “What about my butt?” Silence. Then . . . “Uh, what about your butt?” “You know . . .” “I really don’t know and I have a meeting in ten minutes, so if you can speed this up, I’d appreciate it.” “Dottie, if we don’t have kids, my butt dies with me.” “Your butt is dying with you either way, unless you have some sort of insane idea that I get your butt molded in gold or something, which although I wouldn’t put that past you, it’s not happening. Is that what you mean? You want to mold your butt and give it to our kids? You know I’m all about weird gifts but that’s just not something you should give your offspring.” “I’m not talking about that, but thanks for the idea, writing that in my will.” I hear her exaggerated breath. “I’m saying if we don’t have kids, I won’t pass my butt genes on to anyone and is that really fair to the human race? To stop my butt here?” “You’re serious?” “Dead serious. The butt can’t end with me. And what about my potato salad recipe? No one will say hey, you know what, I have my grandpa’s potato salad recipe I can make to bring to the barbeque. And that’s sacrilege.

My throat grows tight. “You’re making me emotional. I wasn’t ready for the compliments.” She chuckles. “God, I hate you, but I love you.” “I love you, too,” I say softly. “Don’t work too late, okay?” “You got it. I’ll talk to you later.” “Later.” I hang up the phone and stuff it in my pocket. Before heading back to the table, I take a deep breath and lean against the wall, smiling to myself. Yeah, I can see myself being a dad. And that baby butt, oh yeah, I’m passing on that gene. Easy.

She was okay,” I say. Ryot roars. “You’re such a goddamn liar.” I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she had a nice eyeball.” Ryot throws a towel at me from his locker, still laughing. “Fuck you. A nice eyeball. Just one of her eyeballs is nice?” “If I hit the ball tonight, it’s because of her right eyeball. Really got my juices flowing,” I deadpan. “You’re such a shithead.” “Nah, if I hit the ball tonight, it’s for one reason and one reason alone—because I worked my ass off in the cages today.” Ryot rolls his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. Why don’t you romanticize your story a bit? Think about the media coverage you could get.” Ryot steals my bat, holds it up to his mouth like a microphone, and then clears his throat. “Walker Rockwell, you went three for four today with a homerun and three RBIs. What can you attribute to your success today?” He turns his hat around and scratches his jaw. Is that supposed to be me? “Her name is Kate, and her right eyeball enticed me so much, I found myself inspired to find my bat again. Shout-out to Kate Chapman and her spherical sense receptor for vision.” He winks and then shoots a gun at the “camera.” “Now that’s a story.” I stare at him blankly. Blink. Shake my head. “You need fucking help.” I turn toward my locker, where I start mentally preparing for the game.

Why do you make me yell at you? I don’t want to yell at you, but when you say stupid shit like that, you force me to be a bully. Is that what you want, Natalie, for me to be a bully?