Me And My Playlist Quotes

And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true. What do you mean?” Norah asks. It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.

My pride shut me up, my hurt shut me down, and together they ganged up on my hope and let her get away.

Where's the gold?" I demanded. "Don't make me unleash my sword's playlist.

I would rather have someone read my diary than look at my iPod playlists.

Ryan Chase was my eighth-grade collage, aspirational and wide-eyed. But Max was the first bite of grilled cheese on a snowy day, the easy fit of my favorite jeans, that one old song that made it onto every playlist. Peanut-butter Girl Scout cookies instead of an ornate cake. Not glamorous or idealized or complicated. Just me.

You might also see that some of my playlists are simply two songs on repeat fifteen times, like I’m a psycho getting pumped up to murder the president.

If I'd managed any of these ifs-- would I have been able to avoid the inevitable fuck-up, the full-force fuck-off? My pride shut me up, my heart shut me down, and together they ganged up on my hope and let her get away.

Fuck me. Fuck me for always getting into situations like this. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not knowing the words that would've made her stay. Fuck me for not knowing what I want. Fuck me for wavering. Fuck me for not kissing her back the right way. Fuck me for getting my hopes up. Fuck me for not having more realistic hopes. Fuck me for giving her my fucking jacket. Fuck.

You realize that repeatedly bringing me my favorite coffee is comparable to feeding a stray cat, right? You might never get rid of me now.

I started getting Mal's texts just before lunch. Mal: Awake Anne: Morning Mal: Going for a run with Jim Anne: Have fun! Mal: Back from run having lunch ... Mal:Your taste in music sucks Anne: Thanks Mal: Seriously, we need to talk it's that bad. Everything apart from Stage Dive needs to go. Anne: Wait. What are you doing? Mal:Fixing it. Anne: Mal, WTH are you doing? Mal: Making you new playlist wih decent shit. Relay Anne: K Thanks Mal: Bored again Mal: Ben's coming over to play Halo Anne: Great! But you don't have to tell me everything you do, Mal Mal: Davie says communication's important Mal: When are you on the rag? Davie said to find out if you want cupcakes or ice cream Anne: I want to not talk about this ever Mal: Bored. Ben's late Mal: Let's get a dog Anne: Apartment has no pets rule Mal: Nice green lace bra Anne: Get out of my drawers, Mal. Mal: Matching panties? Anne: GET OUT NOW. Mal: :) Mal: sext me Mal: Some on it'll be funny Mal: Plz? Mal: High level of unhealthy codependency traits exhibited by both parties relationship possibly bordeing on toxic Anne: WTF? Mal: Did magazine quiz. We need help- Especially you Anne:... Mal: Booking us couples counseling. Tues 4:15 alright? Anne: We are not going to counseling. Mal: What's wrong? Don't you love me anymore? Anne: Turning phone off now.

You haven’t missed me for one fucking minute. You have never for one single second in your entire pathetic fucking life missed me. You might have missed fucking with my head, and you might have missed the satisfaction you so clearly got from demolishing me, but those are your emotions you’re missing, not mine. I’m afraid I can’t help you.

It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn't about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.

Who's Jessie?" "My Yugo" "You have a name for your Yugo? Please don't tell me you're one of those guys who also names his dick." "Unfortunately, I've yet to find the perfect name for mine, so it's in this netherworld of nameless identity right now.

Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths. Composure. Which, for me, means composing... Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it's just a story I'm telling or a song I'm singing, then I'll be okay because I'm the guy who's providing the words.

I see Nick's number. I debate whether to assign a name to his number. If I commit to that, then I will truly be heartbroken if he never calls me again; my heart will knot each and every time I use this phone and see his name in there. I would probably end up having to trash the phone entirely.

No, It does. And if I left, you’d probably want to give me my jacket back. And if you did, I wouldn’t be able to put it on, because the whole time I’d be knowing how perfectly it fit on you. How even though the sleeves are ridiculously too long and the collar is all fucked up and for all I know some guy named Salvatore is going to come in this very club and say, ‘Hey, that’s my jacket’ and strike up a conversation and sweep you off your feet away from me- even though all those things are true or possibly true, I just can’t ruin the image of you sitting there across from me wearing my jacket better than I, or anyone else could. If I don’t owe it to you, and I don’t owe it to me, I at least owe it Salvatore.

I kind of hate Nick right now, too, but there's someone else higher on my list, someone I hate more than Saddam Hussein and any asshole named Bush combined, hate more than that fuckhead who canceled 'My So-Called Life' and left me with a too-small boxed DVD set that does not answer the questions whether Angela and Jordan Catalano did it, or if Patty and Graham got a divorce, or if there really was something to all that lesbian subtext between Rayanne and Sharon.

I love your hands'- 'have them. They're yours' - 'you're giving me your hands?'- 'my hands. My voice. My back to do your heavy lifting, my arms to carry you to bed when you've had too much tequila. My money, my time, my heart. It's all yours.

Look, I owe you a kind of explanation. I know you probably think I’m a horrid bitch from the plant Schizophrenia, but I’m honestly not trying to mess with your head. I’m just messing with my own head and I seem to have dragged you along the ride. I think you’re nice to me and that scares the fuck out of me. Because when a guy’s a jerk or an asshole, it’s easier because you know exactly where you stand. Since trust isn’t an option, you don’t have to get all freaked out about maybe having to trust him. Right now I am thinking about ten things at the same time, and at least four of those things have to do with you. If you want to leave right now and drive home and forget my name and forget what I look like, I wouldn’t blame you in the least. But what I’m trying to say is that if you did that I would be sorry. And not just sorry in an I-apologize-I’m-so-sorry way, but sorry in a sad-that-something-that-could’ve-happened-didn’t way. That’s it. You can go now. Or we could stay for Where’s Fluffy when Toni’s set is over. I think they’re playing a surprise show here tonight.

Dev's elbow hits my back and I press forward and she's right there and I'm reaching out and she's right there and right at that moment the amps amplify and the music takes on such a pulse that it becomes my heartbeat and her heartbeat and I know it and she knows it and this is the point where we could break apart and that would be it, totally it. But I look into her eyes and she looks into my eyes and we recognize it--the exitement of being here, the excitement of being now. And maybe I'm realizing what a part of it she is and maybe she's realizing what a part of it I am, because suddenly we're not crashing as much as we're combining. The chords swirling around us are becoming a tornado, tightening and tightening and tightening, and we are at the center of it, and we are at the center of each other. My wrist touches hers right at the point of our pulses, and I swear I can feel it. That thrum. We are moving to the music and at the same time we are a stillness. I am not losing myself in the barrage. I am finding her. And she is--yes, she is finding me.

And my biggest fear would be forever missing a piece. You see our story was never complete, and it's supposed to be finished but you haven't yet heard all of me. So listen because my biggest fear would be missing out on how it truly feels . I will forever miss a touch though i never tried it on my face; i might miss how cold it is and i might miss how warm it left me, i might miss how it perfectly traces every line and i might miss how it gets lost everytime. I will forever miss a hand that held my heart, one that only learnt how to wave goodbye, one that only learnt how to part, i will never know how your fingers interlaced with mine, though i have been always sure that they fit perfectly inside. And I know i will definitely miss waking up to your eyes, i will miss knowing they see right through me, i will miss having that subtle silent stare reassure my heart. And a very long playlist will go to waste, no slow dancing not on the kitchen floor and never once in the rain.Just know I already miss having your back, but you are the one who turned yours and i don't know if i should ever forgive that.

How alone am I right now? Even my car has decided to give up on me.

Nick stands up and offers his hand to me. I have no idea what he wants, but what the hell, I take his hand anyway, and he pulls me up on my feet then presses against me for a slow dance and it's like we're in a dream where he's Christopher Plummer and I'm Julie Andrews and we're dancing on the marble floor of an Austrian terrace garden. Somehow my head presses Nick's t-shirt and in this moment I am forgetting about time and Tal because maybe my life isn't over. Maybe it's only beginning.

I need to make a playlist of acoustic covers from tonight and carry it in my pocket. Songs that will remind me of winding up in a coffee shop in lace sleeves and red lipstick

Will tells me how lucky he is to have met his soulmate eleven years ago, and even luckier to have found me again. He tells me I'm his best friend. He tells me he never thought it was possible to be as happy as he is now, with me. He tells me I'm the bravest person he knows. He tells me he loves my loyalty and my playlists and my nose. He tells me he loves me best of all.

Sloan was moving slower in this relationship than I was. I didn't take it personally. I meant what I said: I'd wait for her. I'd wait as long as she needed. When she was ready, she'd let me know. And if I was doing my job as her boyfriend, making her feel safe - and making sure she wanted me enough - it would all work itself out eventually. There was no rush. This was just a season, and there's beauty in all seasons. Even if you are looking forward to the next one.

Fuck Tris. I would give body parts to have a guy write something like that for me. My kidney? Oh, both of them? Here, Nick, they’re yours—just write more for me. I’ll give you a start: boy in punk club asks strange girl to be his girlfriend for five minutes, girl kisses boy, boy kisses back, boy then meets girl—what did you notice about this girl? Nick, let’s hear some lyrics. Please? Ready. Set. Go.

I made my bed and I sleep like a baby with no regrets and I don't mind saying it's a sad, sad story when a mother will teach her daughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger. And how in the world can the words that I said send somebody so over the edge that they'd write me a letter saying that I better shut up and sing or my life will be over?

I have not read most of the big 19th — century novels that people consider “essential,” nor most of the 20th-century ones for that matter. But this does not embarrass me. There are many films to see, many friends to visit, many walks to take, many playlists to assemble and many favorite books to reread. Life’s too short for anxious score-keeping. Also, my grandmother is illiterate, and she’s one of the best people I know. Reading is a deep personal consolation for me, but other things console, too.

And I’m left with this girl, this Siren of Mixed Signals, this Norah. She’s a fuck-good kisser, but clearly has some massive consistency issues. I ask her how the fuck she knows Tris, because that is leaving me completely confused, and at first she’s looking at me like I’m this guy she didn’t just start kissing out of nowhere, but then she’s got her hand on my arm in a way that makes me really notice I have an arm, and then she’s making to run away, and at the same time looking at me like I’m some cancer child. Then I take hold of her arm and she resists without really resisting. Finally she pulls away, only to touch my face in this way that reminds me exactly of her kiss.Then she calls me “you poor schmuck.

It’s like nothing else exists in the world right now except him, me, touching, exploring, longing, needing, sharing, having. So much for my straight-edge vow, because I am drunk on our ing’s.

I was listening to this playlist I’d made for her, headphones clamped over my ears. It was the story of us in music, except it wasn’t finished yet. I had this plan that I’d add a new song every month, so that the playlist would keep going as long as we did. It was sort of an electronic version of adopting a tree, which I’d done in the Carbon Footprint Awareness Club, but only because it had looked good, not because I’d actually wanted to. Keeping a playlist alive sounded much more me.

Claire’s Summer Survival Playlist Janis Joplin—“Piece of My Heart” We Are The Fallen—“Bury Me Alive” Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers—“Runnin’ Down a Dream” Indigo Girls—“Least Complicated” The Doors—“Light My Fire” Mumford & Sons—“Little Lion Man” Girlyman—“Joyful Sign” Matt Nathanson—“Love Comes Tumbling Down” Natasha’s Ghost—“Falling Up” The Beatles—“While My Guitar Gently Weeps” Nemesea—“Afterlife” Dar Williams—“The Ocean

How can you not be concerned that I might have cancer?” I ask. “I found a lump on my breast.” Touch it, Ely. Touch it. “Lie. Not only are you biting your lip, which you always do when you lie, but your mom told me about the alleged lump in the elevator this morning. The doctor said it was an overgrown pimple.” Monkeys!

It gives me some satisfaction to know that my departure will become somebody else's good luck

My pride shut me up, my hurt shut me down, and together they ganged up on my hope and let her get away.

If you or anyone you know is suffering from unresolved grief, please seek help—it can get better. My friend wants me to tell you that.

If Caroline was here, she’d give me her Patience, grasshopper speech. But she’s not and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?

Any requests?” he asked. “Take off your pants.” He grinned at me over his shoulder. “I meant music.” “Oh. Hmmmm.” I rested my chin on my shoulder. “Don’t you have an American Chick in My Apartment playlist?” “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.

You realize that repeatedly bringing me my favorite coffee is comparable to feeding a stray cat, right? You might never get rid of me now.” “Good,” he said, pulling me close to kiss me with an enormous grin. “I was hoping for something like that.

It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.” Norah

They were the friends who allowed me to wallow while also sending me playlists and F1 memes. They were the friends who shared my need to jump wholeheartedly into ctional romances, simply because escaping into the joy of what I have was somehow comforting and hopeful.

Then he slapped me. I was used to my father beating my mother. He did it almost with a nonchalance that came from regular practice and confidence in her perpetual surrender. But I am not my mother. I slapped Victor ― so hard, my wrist almost snapped and the pain volted up my arm.

Around 6:30, I fire up one of the playlists that my husband, Phil, has made. Nina Simone starts to sing and my movements become more fluid. I love to dance. Guests might see me on the line and think I’m cooking, but I’m really feeling the music, feeling the timing—dancing and cooking at the same time.

I sat at home on Friday nights and made Spotify playlists that reflected my mood. I laid around on Saturday evenings and binged watched Netflix until half past two. I sat at home and thought about all the things that I wanted to be doing. But my homebody self with social anxiety preferred to live vicariously through the people in those movies.

Fuck me for always getting into situations like this. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not knowing the words that would’ve made her stay. Fuck me for not knowing what I want. Fuck me for wavering. Fuck me for not kissing her back the right way. Fuck me for getting my hopes up. Fuck me for not having more realistic hopes. Fuck me for giving her my fucking jacket. Fuck.

And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true. “What do you mean?” Norah asks. “It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.” Norah

Fuck her. Fuck her for getting in that cab. Fuck her for fucking with my mind. Fuck her for not knowing what she wants. Fuck her for dragging me into it. Fuck her for being such a fantastic kisser. Fuck her for ruining my favorite band. Fuck her for barely saying a word to me before she left. Fuck her for not waving. Fuck her for getting my hopes up. Fuck her for making my hopes useless. Fuck her for taking off with my fucking jacket. Fuck me.

There was nothing outside of this tent tonight. Nothing. There was nowhere to be, no phone to check. No lights to turn off or doors to wonder whether I’d locked. Not even the faint white noise that comes with civilization. The only person I wanted with me was here, and the serenity of the lake and woods combined with Jason’s gentle affection made me relax in a way I hadn’t known was possible. Like I’d been tense my whole life and hadn’t even known it. All that was left was us.

Don't you dare deny me my breakdown. I will cry until nothing is left of my mascara but black shadows dancing on my cheeks. Don't you dare tell me to get over it, to keep it together, or ask me to push through, to brush it off. This is my messy space. Free of advice. I am not ready to hear. I will cry, I will scream, I will hate and hold a grudge. I will lose myself in every song on our playlist. This is my breakdown. And I am enjoying tearing down what we used to be to build me back up without you.

PLAYLIST “Addicted to Love” by Robert Palmer “All She Wants to Do Is Dance” by Don Henley “Bad Medicine” by Bon Jovi “The Distance” by Cake “The Girl Gets Around” by Sammy Hagar “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen “Guys My Age” by Hey Violet “Hurts So Good” by John Mellencamp “I Love Rock ’n Roll” by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts “I’m on Fire” by Bruce Springsteen “Jessie’s Girl” by Rick Springfield “Pity Party” by Melanie Martinez “Poison” by Alice Cooper “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard “Run to You” by Bryan Adams

Kristen? Do you think it’s weird Tucker showed up on the anniversary of the accident? I mean, it is, right?” She waited for me to continue, stirring her ice around her glass. “Tucker literally fell into my lap. And do you know what kind of dog he is? A Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever.” I ticked the long name off with a five-finger tap on the countertop. “A hunting dog, Kristen. Ducks.” Kristen knew better than anyone the significance of that. Duck hunting had been Brandon’s favorite sport. He’d fly out to South Dakota every year for it with Josh.

The browser was sick with user-generated opinions and misinformation. I was in a million places at once. My mind pooled with strangers’ ideas, each joke or observation or damning polemic as distracting and ephemeral as the next. It wasn’t just me. Everyone I knew was stuck in a feedback loop with themselves. Technology companies stood by, ready to become everyone’s library, memory, personality. I read whatever the other nodes in my social networks were reading. I listened to whatever music the algorithm told me to. Wherever I traveled on the internet, I saw my own data reflected back at me: if a jade face-roller stalked me from news site to news site, I was reminded of my red skin and passive vanity. If the personalized playlists were full of sad singer-songwriters, I could only blame myself for getting the algorithm depressed.

Jason, it’s a pleasure.” Instead of being in awe or “fangirling” over one of the best catchers in the country, my dad acts normal and doesn’t even mention the fact that Jason is a major league baseball player. “Going up north with my daughter?” “Yes, sir.” Jason sticks his hands in his back pockets and all I can focus on is the way his pecs press against the soft fabric of his shirt. “A-plus driver here in case you were wondering. No tickets, I enjoy a comfortable position of ten and two on the steering wheel, and I already established the rule in the car that it’s my playlist we’re listening to so there’s no fighting over music. Also, since it’s my off season, I took a siesta earlier today so I was fresh and alive for the drive tonight. I packed snacks, the tank is full, and there is water in reusable water bottles in the center console for each of us. Oh, and gum, in case I need something to chew if this one falls asleep.” He thumbs toward me. “I know how to use my fists if a bear comes near us, but I’m also not an idiot and know if it’s brown, hit the ground, if it’s black, fight that bastard back.” Oh my God, why is he so adorable? “I plan on teaching your daughter how to cook a proper meal this weekend, something she can make for you and your wife when you’re in town.” “Now this I like.” My dad chuckles. Chuckles. At Jason. I think I’m in an alternate universe. “I saw this great place that serves apparently the best pancakes in Illinois, so Sunday morning, I’d like to go there. I’d also like to hike, and when it comes to the sleeping arrangements, I was informed there are two bedrooms, and I plan on using one of them alone. No worries there.” Oh, I’m worried . . . that he plans on using the other one. “Well, looks like you’ve covered everything. This is a solid gentleman, Dottie.” I know. I really know. “Are you good? Am I allowed to leave now?” “I don’t know.” My dad scratches the side of his jaw. “Just from how charismatic this man is and his plans, I’m thinking I should take your place instead.” “I’m up for a bro weekend,” Jason says, his banter and decorum so easy. No wonder he’s loved so much. “Then I wouldn’t have to see the deep eye-roll your daughter gives me on a constant basis.” My dad leans in and says, “She gets that from me, but I will say this, I can’t possibly see myself eye-rolling with you. Do you have extra clothes packed for me?” “Do you mind sharing underwear with another man? Because I’m game.” My dad’s head falls back as he laughs. “I’ve never rubbed another man’s underwear on my junk, but never say never.” “Ohhh-kay, you two are done.” I reach up and press a kiss to my dad’s cheek. “We are leaving.” I take Jason by the arm and direct him back to the car. From over his shoulder, he mouths to my dad to call him, which my dad replies with a thumbs up. Ridiculous. Hilarious. When we’re saddled up in the car, I let out a long breath and shift my head to the side so I can look at him. Sincerely I say, “Sorry about that.” With the biggest smile on his face, his hand lands on my thigh. He gives it a good squeeze and says, “Don’t apologize, that was fucking awesome.

Zoe, I like every fucking version of you: the princess who used to chase me around with a wand and try to turn me into a toad, the version that sang karaoke in my living room like she didn’t care who was watching, the version that wrote in diaries about how big of a crush she had on me then left them under my little sister’s bed.”  She tries to pull her head back, to escape—from embarrassment or to yell at me, I don’t know—but I hold her head in place, continuing. “I love the version that keeps a ticket from a concert we went to fifteen years ago. I love the version that wants everyone to see her value, and I fucking love the version who jumped into her car to go on a random road trip with me. I love the version that doesn’t want me to get crumbs in her damn Jeep, and I love the version that gave in when I told her I needed food. I love the version that remembers crazy things we did as kids because that means we have memories together since the beginning.” Her head tries to move, her voice starting to protest with my name, but I press it in more.  “You keep pretending, Zoe. You keep living in this road trip ideal world where this is all fun, and we can figure out the details later, but know that I’m not pretending. This is us. This is me and you, and I’m not turning back.

It was an early form of self-soothing. I listed myself to sleep. I ticked off items on my fingers on the school bus. As a teen, I made mixtape after mixtape, agonizing over order and annotating their playlists in the finest tipped pens.

May 19th 2031_ Eleven months before_ I opened my eyes to see darkness and the sound of my alarm beeping. 0400 hours. I turned it off and got up. I looked for my glasses on my bedside cabinet and put them on. "Alexa, Good morning roll," I said loudly in the dark room. The lights came on and the curtains opened, the speaker turned on and started playing my Spotify playlist. I slowly got dressed and made myself breakfast. After breakfast, I downed a 500ml bottle of zero coke. I leaned to one side and burped. I looked around my kitchen. The dark marble counter and white cupboards, walls and ceiling matched with each other. I looked outside the kitchen window at the traffic down below. I was about 6 floors high, if you were to jump off from that high, there is a very high chance you might die. And if you were lucky to survive, you would be immobilised from your broken legs and hip and ribs. I turned around and sat on the black leathery sofa and switched on the TV. I looked on Netflix at old World War Two films that I could watch before bed. I scrolled through the list. From 'Dunkirk' to 'Unbroken' to a lot more films. I chose a couple and switched the TV onto the news. The reporter said that there was a knife crime in Redding earlier. I sighed but was relieved that it wasn't me. It is a low chance that I would get murdered by someone or people with knives in England but it's still a possibility. I turned the TV off and looked at my phone. There was nothing new on Discord and nothing new on WhatsApp. I checked my Snapchat and opened a few Snaps from my friends at work. I took a selfie of myself in my apartment not working. I sent it off and was happy that I don't work on

Christmas is a special time of year. The beauty and magic spread throughout every aspect of our lives, from the sights, smells, and sounds to things we touch and taste. I hope to capture this immersive experience in my novel. Which means I’ve included all sorts of extra goodies for you! For the full reading experience, be sure to explore the book page on my website. I’ve added a playlist with a corresponding song for each chapter. You can also download your very own copy of the Christmas Calendar to follow along with Cassie! For a visual treat, follow me on Pinterest where you’ll find photos showcasing everything from

Okay, what is this?” she finally blurted. “What?” Nathaniel glanced at her. “The music is all over the place. What are we even listening to?” “Oh, I’m sharing my playlist with my niece on Spotify. She’s ten. So it can be a mixed bag.

The real version of you is so far buried beneath other’s expectations, I thought there was a chance she was gone forever, Zoe. But then you questioned it all and threw away what you knew, and I got a glimpse of her. That Zoe? That Zoe is the one I fell for when I was 23, and I begged her to let me give us a chance. That one has been coming out little by little again, shining just a bit in the sun. I fucking miss that Zoe. That Zoe? That Zoe I would sit up at two AM and have ridiculous conversations with. That Zoe would point out stars and make her own constellations. That Zoe sat in a photo booth with me and giggled like she didn’t care who heard her snort-laugh.” I can see her eyes go wide from the corner of my vision, and I smile.  “But that Zoe started to fade that night when I picked you up. I watched for over a year, watched her disappear.

Jason: Rehearsing. So who came over? He was fishing. I smiled. Sloan: My best friend, Kristen. Jason: Did you talk about me? I blanched. Then I panicked. How was I supposed to respond to that? Yes, we talked about you? My best friend advised me to climb you like a tree in search of your nuts? And then we talked about my vagina? Of course I was going to lie. But I was too guilty to think up a believable one on the fly. I was weighing my responses when another text came through.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness consume me. The images all blurred in my mind again: Stephen’s emerald eyes locked to mine and CJ’s voice reading me bedtime stories and Gabe’s hands pressed to CJ’s sweat-slicked back and filet mignon lying on the counter and Gabe’s lips against mine and the way Stephen fucks me and Mr. Levy’s enthusiasm and the trip to France that I would never go on and the smell of Stephen’s aftershave and the dip in the back of his neck and his arms around Diana’s waist and June 14 and Jackie’s judgmental glower and the glittery look in Macy’s eyes the night she crashed her car and Georgia and me in matching pajamas and my father kissing CJ over the kitchen sink, her hands held hostage, wet with dish soap. All of it fighting for right and wrong; all of it so unclear that I wanted to laugh at the same time the hot tears rolled down my cheeks in the dark as the next track on the playlist began, and Stevie Nicks sang on. Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.

I swear to God, if there isn’t penis touching in the very near future, this friendship is over. That’s what I want for my birthday gift.” “For me to touch Jason’s penis?” “Yes.” “Darn. I got you some lotions from Bath & Body Works,” I said, turning out my lower lip in a mock pout.

Their playlist had no black artists on it. And at the time, Michael Jackson was black. So what is this bullshit that they loved it? They were forced into it by me.

I’m serious too, Kate. You shouldn’t be working. You should be listening. I chose this playlist myself. It’s my grand gesture. To show you how I feel.” “I don’t give a shit about how you feel!” “Well, that’s harsh.” She crosses her arms, and her foot taps on the floor. “You know, I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice. You’re obviously too immature to handle this like an adult. So…I’m going to tell your father.” Right. She’s the one who’s going to tell Daddy on me, but I’m being immature. Of course. And I thought of that already too. “My father’s in California for the next two weeks. I’m not overly concerned about what he might do to me via telephone.” She opens her mouth to try again, but I continue. “You could try talking to Frank. But he’s in the Hamptons, at that year-round golf course Trump just opened. George is in his office.” She turns, but my next words make her pause. “I should warn you, though…he’s got a real soft spot for romantics. I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. And he’s my godfather.” She stares at me a minute. She’s trying to think of a comeback. I’m just glad I cleared all the heavy objects off my desk. You know, the ones she probably wants to chuck at my head right about now.

Firing up my iPod, I selected my favorite workout playlist and started at a slow jog. “The Final Countdown” came on, putting me instantly in the zone.

Charlotte tugs on my jersey. “Do you mind if I take some pics tonight?” she yells over the stereo system, which is blasting our classic rock warmup playlist. “’Course not. Do your thing.” She gives me one of those lingering smiles that makes me wonder if my mom is right. If Charlotte has had feelings for me since high school. I watch her walk away. She’s wearing some cutoffs that make her ass look amazing and her slender legs long. “Just friends, huh?” Billy elbows me hard. “Best rethink that.” “Why are you always pestering me?” He holds a hand over his heart. “You wound me, bro. I’m trying to be a good person. Which means I’m not making a move on your girl like I want to.” I don’t even bother arguing that she’s not my girl. Because Charlotte feels like she’s mine. Fuck it. I’m done debating this. I’m going after what I really want.

I'm going to fall in love with you,” he declares. “Is that okay? You don’t have to love me back. Just let me feel the way I want to at my own pace.

Me: I like your study playlist. Angel: Good. You can use it when you’re studying in room 1 or 2. It was exactly what I needed. She had me smiling as soon as I’d opened the chat. Me: You’re repeating yourself, little angel. Angel: And you’re making a nuisance of yourself, Squatter. Me: You’re really adorable. I think we are becoming friends. Angel: Not friends. You are my nemesis. It had not been difficult to figure out Evelyn Kastanos was the original room three occupant. After our first anonymous texting conversation, I’d simply waited at a nearby table. When she’d hurried by, directly into her room, I had not felt surprised. If anything, I had been pleased. It made this little game all the more fun. I was careful not to go too far. I wanted Evelyn to have fun with me, not drive her crazy. This was the reason I continued letting her have room three.

would have introduced him to my beautiful girlfriend, Evelyn Kastanos. It wouldn’t have been at random but at your favorite restaurant or the café in Savage River. Of course, he already would have known all about you because you’re always on my mind and I would have talked about you on our weekly calls. He would have already known how smart you are, what a good sister you are, that we like the same music, that your playlists are better than mine. I would have told him I thought I was dreaming the first time I saw you. Your beauty is that surreal. He would have known you’d gotten Marco to smile and regularly bring me to my knees. He’d be keeping track of our swim statistics and know you’re the fastest girl on our team. He would know how long I’ve been stuck on you and what it felt like when you first kissed me. I would have told him you make me want to learn to be gentle and calm because you deserve to have a boyfriend who is that way with you.

I’m sorry, darling. What are you sorry about? Being a shit mother. This is something she has said and worried about my whole adult life. Sometimes she makes herself a victim of the thought and sometimes it carries a deep plea for forgiveness. I had always been exasperated by the statement and felt it asked me to repeatedly qualify that there had been shit moments of selfishness that accompany any human, mother or not, but that she, in all honesty, was not a shit mother. There are clearly certain thoughts that keep playing through a life, though, like songs on repeat. They are for you, and you alone and however much you try to involve other people in them, they really have nothing to do with anyone but yourself. Here, in whatever end-of-life moment we are in, it is suddenly necessary to lay those thoughts to rest. Take the stylus off the record, delete the playlist. There’s nothing to be sorry about, Mum. So what if you were, what if it were true? Does it matter? Because here we are together, talking . . . together. I love you and more than that, I know I love you, and I see who we are together—we laugh a lot, you are who I want to call when things are bad or good or interesting. So how can you being a shit mother really be something that carries any weight in terms of what it did to me, your child?—It didn’t. Which makes me think you weren’t, or at least, not entirely. She has fallen asleep, but she is smiling. I think even though it was a bit of a ramble, I made a good point. In making it, I realize I absolutely mean it.

He laughed, then took my hand and wove his fingers through mine as he walked me out of the store. I died. I had to draw on some internal strength women probably use for childbirth just to close my fingers around his, because his touch made me lose control over the use of my hand.

pulled myself up through sheer will, found myself an apartment, and started painting. I slept. I updated my blog. I did yoga. I decorated my apartment and did things I loved—and I chose happiness. There was a certain dullness to it, though. My “happiness” wasn’t always the real thing. Most of the time it was a fabricated, forced version that cracked around the edges if examined closely enough. But it was the choice that was the accomplishment. I’d finally found the me I’d lost before. I was strong—heartbroken, but stronger than I’d ever given myself credit for. Especially under the circumstances.

parted my knees and let him settle between my thighs. He shifted down so the tip of him pressed right into me through our underwear. The tease was a little maddening—and I think he knew it. It strained against me right where it would slide in effortlessly if there was nothing between us, almost like he was saying, “If we take these off, you can have this.” He didn’t have to tell me twice.

That tip… I wanted to do things to it. Taste the bead of moisture I knew he had there. Put it in my mouth, feel it bump my throat. I was already making plans for next time, imagining all the ways I’d make him crazy like he was making me crazy.

Jason had this way of looking at me. It reminded me of how people used to look at my paintings, back before the astronaut cats. A focused fascination that leaned in and searched the brushstrokes. He didn’t even blink. It made me feel self-conscious, except I was pretty sure it meant he liked what he saw, which was good. Because I liked what I saw too. A lot.

Openmouthed, I went to the sink and peeked into the cabinet underneath. Everything was put neatly away, and a shiny new pipe and knob had been installed. I closed the doors and turned on the water. It ran. The dishes had been washed. My tequila glass sat upside down in the sink, drying on the rack. Gratitude pulsed through me.

I’d wait as long as she needed. When she was ready, she’d let me know. And if I was doing my job as her boyfriend, making her feel safe—and making sure she wanted me enough—it would all work itself out eventually. There was no rush.

It didn’t escape me that I wanted to shamelessly google her, just like the creeper she accused me of being, but my curiosity about her had just gone from moderate to extreme. I was impressed. Really impressed.

Jason came up behind me as I took seven hazelnuts and slipped them into my purse. I turned to him and he arched his eyebrows at me. “What? They come with the coffee. And I love the little creamers. I keep them in my purse for coffee emergencies.” “Coffee emergencies?” He smiled down on me. He was back in my personal space again. Just slightly closer than most people stood. It made me feel a little breathless. “Yeah,” I swallowed. “You can never be too prepared.

Then he got up and threw me over his shoulder like a caveman. He slapped my ass and I shrieked, giggling as he turned us for the bedroom.

Please let it have been quick and painless. Please. This would destroy me. This was just what it would take. The limp body of somebody’s poor pet under the tires of my shitty car on this particular cursed day, and what little joy I had left would just pop out and float off.

He paused and beamed at me. And then he smothered me with kisses. My mouth, my cheeks, my neck, telling me over and over and over again that he loved me, and I laughed and clutched him. Every time he said it, the words filled me up. They wrapped themselves around me like warm, strong arms and made me feel safe and cherished, pushing out every doubt that his past and his fame had made me feel. He loved me. And I loved him back.

Look,” I said into the silence, hoping she could hear me, “he’s my best friend. He came with me when I moved to LA from Minnesota. I left him with someone I thought I could trust. I love my dog. I want my dog back. Please.” She was quiet for so long that again I thought the call had been dropped. “Okay,” she whispered. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Great—thank you. And I’ll reimburse you for your time and the vet bills—” “And my ticket.” “Your ticket?” “I got a ticket for parking in the middle of Topanga Canyon Boulevard when I stopped to get him into the car.

He buried his face in my neck and I could feel the racking of his gasps as he held me to his chest. Hands touched us, people swayed against our bodies with the surge of the crowd and it didn’t even matter because we were alone. It was just us. Nothing was left but us.

I blanched. Then I panicked. How was I supposed to respond to that? Yes, we talked about you? My best friend advised me to climb you like a tree in search of your nuts? And then we talked about my vagina? Of course I was going to lie. But I was too guilty to think up a believable one on the fly. I was weighing my responses when another text came through.

But I would fight it. I would do everything in my power to make sure this didn’t happen. Because if it did, it might cost me Sloan.

My mouth had gone dry. I picked up my glass of water and downed it. He watched me with a mix of amusement and concern and I wondered if Jason found women who needed to breathe into their hands and lie down in restaurant booths sexy.

Jason, I listen to your music,” I said a moment later, biting my lip. “A lot. I love it. Your last album got me through a really rough time in my life.” He wiped at his eyes, still recovering. “And I’ve eaten the food from your blog. I’m probably a bigger fan of yours than you are of mine.” “I doubt that. And at least I told you about my blog.” “Well, you had to or I’d have never let you on my zombie apocalypse survival team.” I scoffed.

I bit my lip. “Jason, I take that status really seriously.” “I hope so, because so do I. Look, I don’t care what the rule books say we should be doing right now. I like you. You like me. We agree that we’re exclusively seeing each other. And I want you to be able to tell random a cappella groups that hit on you that you have a boyfriend.” Then he leaned in and kissed me. “And your boyfriend should definitely know your best friend.

His steady voice had become a part of my daily routine. But this time when voicemail picked up, a robotic female informed me that the mailbox was full. A sign? I looked at Kristen, who watched me wordlessly. That was it. My mind was made up. I thumbed through my phone and found a picture of Tucker and me that I’d taken a few days earlier. I attached it to a message to Jason and sent it off. “You’re right. Brandon would want me to be happy. And that Jason guy, if he ever shows up? He can go to hell.

You know, you have a lot of nerve. It’s been almost two weeks, and now you decide you want your dog?” Two weeks? Tucker had been lost for two fucking weeks? “I’ve been out of town. I didn’t have cell service. I had no idea he was missing. I have no problem paying for a reward. Please, just give me your address and I’ll—” “No. He’s not your dog anymore. If he’d been at the shelter, his hold would be up and he’d either have been adopted or euthanized. I put up signs, ran his microchip, put him online, I left you a dozen voicemails. I did my due diligence. You abandoned him. So as far as I’m concerned, he’s my dog now.” She hung up on me.

Sloan? Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you rescued Tucker and took such good care of him. And I really appreciate you watching him until I get back.” She was quiet for a moment. “Thank you for saying thank you,” she said finally. My lips twisted into a sideways smile. “We’ll be in touch.

She didn’t move, but her eyes dropped to my mouth. The air between us felt charged. The imprint of her still lingered on my skin. I could feel the press of her thighs, the weight of her soft body. Her perfume clung to me like fingers twisted into my shirt, drawing me toward her again. “Come here,” I said, my voice low. The command activated her. She flew at me.

Why? Navy guy isn’t your type?” “No, he’s kind of cute, actually. It’s just that I’m really into this other guy right now.” “Oh?” My heart picked up. “Yeah. He’s pretty amazing. Thoughtful. Took care of me when I was sick yesterday. Sexy northern accent. Doesn’t scare easily, something I need in a man.

I hit him, and he laughed, tickling me by nibbling my neck.

couldn’t wrap my brain around how I’d misjudged Jason to such a high degree, how I could think he was that in love with me, when clearly he wasn’t. It made me question my entire sense of self. Like finding out your hero isn’t a hero at all and you’re just too blind to know the difference. Right after it happened, I’d

The way my body cried for sleep after this news scared me because it felt like before, when I used to sleep through my depression.

Tucker got me moving. He gave my days purpose. And now he would be leaving me in a few weeks,

You don’t think this is a little weird? You fixing my sink?” “The weird thing would be me not fixing it knowing that I can. Come on,” he said, opening his door. “I wanna get my hands on your pipes.