Windy Hair Quotes

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in blurry, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as a starfish loves a coral reef and as a kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fettuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. i will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and as an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as the taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock.

It was not a windy day, my hair always looks like that.

Read poetry every day of your life. Poetry is good because it flexes muscles you don’t use often enough. Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition. It keeps you aware of your nose, your eye, your ear, your tongue, your hand. And, above all, poetry is compacted metaphor or simile. Such metaphors, like Japanese paper flowers, may expand outward into gigantic shapes. Ideas lie everywhere through the poetry books, yet how rarely have I heard short story teachers recommending them for browsing. What poetry? Any poetry that makes your hair stand up along your arms. Don’t force yourself too hard. Take it easy. Over the years you may catch up to, move even with, and pass T. S. Eliot on your way to other pastures. You say you don’t understand Dylan Thomas? Yes, but your ganglion does, and your secret wits, and all your unborn children. Read him, as you can read a horse with your eyes, set free and charging over an endless green meadow on a windy day.

Wind is the most skilled hairdresser! Find a windy weather and let your hair be shaped creatively!

A year or two younger than his eminently practical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older; his seven or eight and forty might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had not much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off; and that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness.

What are the unreal things, but the passions that once burned one like fire? What are the incredible things, but the things that one has faithfully believed? What are the improbable things? The things that one has done oneself. No, Ernest; life cheats us with shadows, like a puppet- master. We ask it for pleasure. It gives it to us, with bitterness and disappointment in its train. We come across some noble grief that we think will lend the purple dignity of tragedy to our days, but it passes away from us, and things less noble take its place, and on some grey windy dawn, or odorous eve of silence and of silver, we find ourselves looking with callous wonder, or dull heart of stone, at the tress of gold-flecked hair that we had once so wildly worshipped and so madly kissed.

Gently, he begins to brush my hair.

The struggle in Mr. Guppy’s breast and the numerous oscillations it occasioned him between his mother’s door and us were sufficiently conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted cutting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was still oscillating in the same troubled state of mind.

The lamp hummed: 'Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain." The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.

TRAVEL Loving you, flesh to flesh, I often thought Of travelling penniless to some mud throne Where a master might instruct me how to plot My life away from pain, to love alone In the bruiseless embrace of stone and lake. Lost in the fields of your hair I was never lost Enough to lose a way I had to take; Breathless beside your body I could not exhaust The will that forbid me contract, vow, Or promise, and often while you slept I looked in awe beyond your beauty.                                                                   Now I know why many men have stopped and wept Halfway between the loves they leave and seek, And wondered if travel leads them anywhere — Horizons keep the soft line of your cheek, The windy sky’s a locket for your hair.

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in a blurring, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fetuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock. I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.

Along some northern coast at sundown a beaten gold light is waterborne, sweeping across lakes and tracing zigzag rivers to the sea, and we know we're in transit again, half numb to the secluded beauty down there, the slate land we're leaving behind, the peneplain, to cross these rainbands in deep night. This is time totally lost to us. We don't remember it. We take no sense impressions with us, no voices, none of the windy blast of the aircraft on the tarmac, or the white noise of flight, or the hours waiting. Nothing sticks to us but smoke in our hair and clothes. It is dead time. It never happened until it happens again. Then it never happened.

It's so windy even the trees are having a bad-hair day.

And there she is, blonde hair, lavender sundress, and embroidered Converse. Beautiful as always with that sunshine smile I’ll never tire of seeing. My best friend and the person who owns every part of me.

so I break her rules by cupping her head to pull her into my chest, placing a kiss on the top of her hair. Max, in my other arm, catches on and flops his body in half to place a sloppy one on her head as well. She laughs, looking up to find my very proud son. “Thanks, Bug.

Evan Zanders’ hair is black and tightly faded to his scalp, seeming like he can’t go more than seven to ten business days without getting a fresh cut. At the same time, Eli Maddison’s brown mop falls messily over his eyes, and he probably couldn’t tell you the last time he saw his barber.

I know him, that man walking- toward me up the crowded street of the city, I have lived with him seven years now, I know his fast stride, his windy wheatfield hair, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, hands that have known my body, touched its softest part, caused its quick shudders and slow releasings, I have seen his face above my face, his mouth smiling, moaning his eyes closed and opened, I have studied his eyes, the brown turning gold at the centers, I have silently watched him lying beside me in the early morning, I know his loneliness, like mine, human and sad, but different, too, his private pain and pleasure I can never enter even as he comes closer, past trees and cars, trash and flowers, steam rising from the manhole covers, gutters running with rain, he lifts his head, he sees me, we are strangers again, and a rending music of desire and loss— I don’t know him—courses through me, and we kiss and say, It’s good to see you, as if we haven’t seen each other in years when it was just a few hours ago, and we are shy, then, not knowing what to say next.

Kit!” Theo charges out into the street, hair wild and amber in the windy dusk. Her boots pound against the stones, and my first thought is, good. Theo should always walk with heavy footsteps. She should leave deep tracks wherever she goes so that everyone can know she was there, like a historical event. Archaeologists should put tape around her footprints and study them with brushes.

Light breaks where no sun shines - 1914-1953 Light breaks where no sun shines; Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart Push in their tides; And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads, The things of light File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones. A candle in the thighs Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age; Where no seed stirs, The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars, Bright as a fig; Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs. Dawn breaks behind the eyes; From poles of skull and toe the windy blood Slides like a sea; Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky Spout to the rod Divining in a smile the oil of tears. Night in the sockets rounds, Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes; Day lights the bone; Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin The winter's robes; The film of spring is hanging from the lids. Light breaks on secret lots, On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain; When logics dies, The secret of the soil grows through the eye, And blood jumps in the sun; Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

As Gernsback became wealthy, he cultivated the air of a bon vivant, packaging himself as adroitly as he packaged his crystal sets by dressing in bespoke suits and silk ties. But he inevitably struck people as odd, rude, self-centered, and even callous. On train trips to Chicago to pick up parts for his company, he would stop off in Cleveland to visit his seven-year-old cousin, Hildegarde. The entrepreneur would terrify the girl by launching into windy soliloquies about a society in which domed cities in orbit, robot doctors, and retirement colonies on Mars were commonplace. (Meanwhile, horse-drawn carts were still plying the streets outside.) If a ringing telephone interrupted him in midreverie, he would raise an admonishing finger and say to his cousin in his bristling Germanic accent, “Hildegarde, fix your hair. It won’t be long before the caller can see your face over the wires.

An example is the campaign that Goodby, Berlin & Sil- verstein produced for the Northern California Honda Deal- ers Advertising Association (NCHDAA) in 1989. Rather than conform to the stereotypical dealer group advertising ("one of a kind, never to be repeated deals, this weekend 114 Figure 4.1 UNUM: "Bear and Salmon. Figure 4.2 UNUM: "Father and Child." 115 PEELING THE ONION only, the Honda-thon, fifteen hundred dollars cash back . . ." shouted over cheesy running footage), it was decided that the campaign should reflect the tone of the national cam- paign that it ran alongside. After all, we reasoned, the only people who know that one spot is from the national cam- paign and another from a regional dealer group are industry insiders. In the real world, all people see is the name "Honda" at the end. It's dumb having one of (Los Angeles agency) Rubin Postaer's intelligent, stylish commercials for Honda in one break, and then in the next, 30 seconds of car salesman hell, also apparently from Honda. All the good work done by the first ad would be undone by the second. What if, we asked ourselves, we could in some way regionalize the national message? In other words, take the tone and quality of Rubin Postaer's campaign and make it unique to Northern California? All of the regional dealer groups signed off as the Northern California Chevy/Ford/ Toyota Dealers, yet none of the ads would have seemed out of place in Florida or Wisconsin. In fact, that's probably where they got them from. In our research, we began not by asking people about cars, or car dealers, but about living in Northern California. What's it like? What does it mean? How would you describe it to an alien? (There are times when my British accent comes in very useful.) How does it compare to Southern California? "Oh, North and South are very different," a man in a focus group told me. "How so?" "Well, let me put it this way. There's a great rivalry between the (San Francisco) Giants and the (L.A.) Dodgers," he said. "But the Dodgers' fans don't know about it." Everyone laughed. People in the "Southland" were on a different planet. All they cared about was their suntans and flashy cars. Northern Californians, by comparison, were more modest, discerning, less likely to buy things to "make state- ments," interested in how products performed as opposed to 116 Take the Wider View what they looked like, more environmentally conscious, and concerned with the quality of life. We already knew from American Honda—supplied re- search what Northern Californians thought of Honda's cars. They were perceived as stylish without being ostentatious, reliable, understated, good value for the money . . . the paral- lels were remarkable. The creative brief asked the team to consider placing Honda in the unique context of Northern California, and to imagine that "Hondas are designed with Northern Californi- ans in mind." Dave O'Hare, who always swore that he hated advertising taglines and had no talent for writing them, came back immediately with a line to which he wanted to write a campaign: "Is Honda the Perfect Car for Northern Califor- nia, or What?" The launch commercial took advantage of the rivalry between Northern and Southern California. Set in the state senate chamber in Sacramento, it opens on the Speaker try- ing to hush the house. "Please, please," he admonishes, "the gentleman from Northern California has the floor." "What my Southern Californian colleague proposes is a moral outrage," the senator splutters, waving a sheaf of papers at the other side of the floor. "Widening the Pacific Coast Highway . . . to ten lanes!" A Southern Californian senator with bouffant hair and a pink tie shrugs his shoulders. "It's too windy," he whines (note: windy as in curves, not weather), and his fellow Southern Californians high-five and murmur their assent. The Northern Californians go nuts, and the Speaker strug- gles in vain to call everyone to order. The camera goes out- side as th

Unfortunately, it’s become ingrained in me, making me believe some-thing is wrong with me. My shape became more womanly the older I got. But my mom, she’s not used to curves, and in her mind, I'm overweight, simply because we don't share the same proportions. But I don’t know what she expected. Her husband, the other half of my DNA, looks nothing like the ginger hair, freckled, thin-framed side of my mom’s family. My parents couldn't be more different. Sure, there's the physical disparities. My dad is a black man, and my mom is a white woman. But more than that, their personalities are polar opposites. My dad is funny and kind, nurturing. My mom is cold, distant, and outright mean sometimes. I want to be proud that I’m half of a remarkable man, but it’s hard to be proud of anything when my own mother is disappointed in everything I do. And for some reason now, it seeps in more than it used to. As the bartender places my burger down in front of me, a quick regret paces through my mind. The more I think about my mother, the less appealing this food sounds. Maybe I should’ve ordered a salad with the dressing on the side. Maybe my uniform will fit a little better tomorrow if I eat that instead.

Volterra,’ Olivia announced in a flat, icy voice. VOLTERRA- WE BEGAN THE STEEP CLIMB, AND THE ROAD GREW CONGESTED. As we wound higher, the cars became too close together for Olivia to weave insanely between them anymore. We slowed to a crawl behind a little tan Peugeot. ‘Olivia,’ I moaned. The clock on the dash seemed to be speeding up. ‘It's the only way in,’ she tried soothing me. But her voice was too strained to comfort. The cars continued to edge forward, one car length at a time. The sun beamed down brilliantly, seeming already overhead. The cars crept one by one toward the city. As we got closer, I could see cars parked by the side of the road with people getting out to walk the rest of the way. At first- I thought it was just impatience-something I could easily understand. But then we came around a switchback, and I could see the filled parking lot outside the city wall, the crowds of people walking through the gates. No one was being allowed to drive through. ‘Olivia,’ I whispered urgently. ‘I know,’ she said. Her face was chiseled from ice. Now that I was looking, and we were crawling slowly enough to see, I could tell that it was very windy. The people crowding toward the gate gripped their hats and tugged their hair out of their faces. Their clothes billowed around them. I also noticed that red was everywhere. Red shirts, red hats, red flags dripping like long ribbons beside the gate, whipping in the wind as I watched, the brilliant crimson scarf one woman had tied around her hair was caught in a sudden gust. It twisted up into the air above her, writhing like it was alive. She reached for it, jumping in the air, but it continued to flutter higher, a patch of bloody color against the dull, ancient walls. ‘Bell.’ Olivia spoke swiftly in a fierce, deep voice. ‘I can't see what the guard here will decide now-if this doesn't work, you're going to have to go in alone. You're going to have to run. Just keep running in the course they tell you to. Don't get lost.’ I repeated what I had said- the name repeatedly, trying to get it down. ‘Or 'the clock tower,' if they speak English. I'll go around and try to find a secluded spot somewhere behind the city where I can go over the wall.’ I nodded two times… ‘Marcel will be under the clock tower, to the north of the square. There's a narrow alleyway on the right, and he'll be in the shadow there. You have to get his attention before he can move into the sun.’ I nodded furiously. Olivia was near the front of the line. A man in a navy-blue uniform was directing the flow of traffic, turning the cars away from the full lot. They U-turned and headed back to find a place beside the road. Then it was Olivia's turn…

Her little hand motions me closer. She puts a satin-gloved hand up to my ear, cupping her lips. “I like your hair,” she whispers.

Your hair is pretty like this.” He doesn’t touch me. Instead, he nods towards it. “But I miss your curls. They’re your signature.

Stevie. Curly hair and amazing ass. Won’t sleep with me, but I hope she changes her mind.”  Scrolling to the Denver tab, she clicks on it. “Stevie. Has an attitude. Likes basketball and is down to eat burgers.” She exits out, finding Washington DC next. “Stevie,” she continues. “Best sex of my life.”  She keeps going to Calgary. “Stevie. Snuck her into my hotel room to watch movies with me all night.” San Jose. “Stevie. Insane blowjob in the shower. Wore my T-shirt to bed.” Next, she finds Vancouver. “Stevie. Came to my game. My favorite person to hang out with.

I love when you wear your hair like this.

I stroke her curls away from her face, absentmindedly playing with her hair as I scratch Rosie’s belly with my other hand. “You’re welcome, Vee. Thanks for being my girlfriend.”  She softly laughs, turning to sleep on her side. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s the best decision I ever made.” I stroke her cheekbone with my thumb as she starts to fade back to sleep. “Thank you for choosing me,” she adds in her sedated state.  Her lashes flutter from my touch, hiding her blue-green eyes. Her full lips are slightly parted, and her freckled cheeks could not be more adorable.  “It’s the best decision I ever made.

Thank you for tonight.”  He leans his cheek on my hair. “I’d do anything for you, Miller.

She lifts her hands, but instantly drops them to my knees with a smack. My chest rumbles. “Don’t laugh at me.”  “I’m not laughing at you, baby.” Moving her hair away from her face, I tuck it behind her ears. “I just find it funny that you’re so in your head right now, while I’m over here desperate for you to touch me and knowing there’s nothing you could do that I’m not going to like.”  Her brown eyes peek up at me through her lashes. “Really?” “Promise. Think of this as part of our game.” Going first, I let my hands find her outer thighs, fingers working to pull her closer. “Play along.

She moans into me, and unlike last time, I set the pace.  It’s frantic and needy.  God, her mouth is soft. Eager too, like she’s been waiting her whole life to kiss someone the way she’s kissing me.  While my fingers tangle into that auburn hair, Kennedy’s tongue ever so slightly licks my bottom lip, and the needy groan that leaves my throat might be the most desperate sound I’ve ever made. She smiles into me, my wife who has no idea how fucking badly I’ve wanted this. Wished for this. Dreamed of this.

His laugh is a little bit evil when he flips us, leaving me straddling him in only my bralette and thong. He pulls at my hair tie to let my hair drop down my back.  “You wanna play, Kenny? Let’s fucking play.”  He smooths his hands over my thighs, gripping my hips and gliding me to rock over his erection.

Fingers threaded through my hair, she dots kisses up my neck as I carry her. Her lips are cold, sending little shocks to my system as if I weren’t already amped up.  “Fuck, Ken,” I exhale. “I missed you.”  She pulls back to look at me, sopping wet hair glued to her face, brows narrowed in confusion. I halt in my steps. “What?”  “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be missed.

Isaiah tucks a rogue strand behind my ear, running his palm over my hair until he wraps my ponytail around his fist once. Twice. He tugs, ensuring I’m looking up and making eye contact with him. “Make sure you keep your eyes on me tonight, wifey. I have a feeling I’m going to have a good night at bat, and I want you to watch.”  “You always want me to watch.”  “Mmm, and I like to watch too, you know.”  My mouth goes dry at his insinuation.  “But yes, I do love your attention.”  “Because you’re obsessed with me.”  He chuckles close to my ear. “I think that’s the perfect word to describe how I feel about you, Doc.” Isaiah nips my earlobe before soothing it with a soft kiss on my neck.

Luke was about to grab Windy and haul him out of the cave when he heard a man clearing his throat. Both boys turned their heads fast to see a hooded figure standing outside the cave. He was wearing a dark brown robe and holding a staff that was topped by a slender glowrod. The figure pulled back his hood to reveal the weathered face of a white-haired, bearded man. “I’m Ben Kenobi,” the man said. “We don’t have much time if I’m going to get you boys home.

He’s got a backwards hat on, dark-rimmed glasses, and a toddler in his arms with a matching cap for goodness’ sake. I try my hardest not to look too closely, but I can see the dark hair spilling out around the edges, ice-blue eyes framed by those glasses. Scruff slopes over his jawline, screaming “older man,” and that alone is my kryptonite.

Glad you haven’t because that was when you had a knife to your throat—” “I was trying to save you and the people,” I reminded him. “We’ve already covered this.” “We did, but Kieran told me that he heard you calling him. He said the other wolven felt it, too. That they all veered in our direction. Jasper confirmed it,” he said. “He said the same thing.” “I didn’t. I mean, how?” I swallowed. “I was obviously feeling a lot in that moment. I felt like, I don’t know, like I was about to lose control. But how is that even possible?” “I don’t know, Poppy. I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t know how they could’ve picked up anything from you.” He tugged on a strand of my wet hair and draped it over my bare shoulder. “Neither do they. I asked them when they came by just now. Both said they felt you calling for them—calling for help.” Goosebumps broke out over my skin. “Delano. Oh, my gods….” “What?” “When we were in New Haven and I was kept in the room, he burst inside at one point, swearing he heard me calling for him. But I hadn’t.” Casteel’s brows slashed over his eyes. “Did something happen at that time? Because if so and I wasn’t told about it—” “Nothing happened. I was mad—mad at you, because I was locked in the room,” I explained. “He then said it must’ve been the wind, and it was windy then, so I forgot about it.

and take a quick glance in the mirror.  I look like a hot mess.  My sweatpants are stained, the fabric so thin from being overly worn, and my hair needs to be washed. I don’t have a touch of makeup on, and there’s a good chance there’s dried mustard on my chin from my hot dog earlier. But these pups don’t care, and neither do I.

Strangers think Jus and me are twins, because we’re both cursed with messy red hair and a truckload of freckles, not to mention we’re both thirteen. But his real twin is his sister Liberty, even though she looks nothing like him, being a blond and, well…a girl. Liberty sauntered in, joining Justice and me in the kitchen. She slouched against the counter and tossed her baseball from hand to hand. Baseball was to Liberty like oxygen was to the rest of us. “That dumb ol’ skeleton is all people have on their brains this morning.” “You’re just mad the police won’t let you on the baseball field,” Justice said. Liberty spit into the trash can. She was a southern belle. Minus the belle part. She also ran faster and slugged harder than anyone else in Windy Bottom. “It’s probably just some soldier left over from the Civil War.” Justice tied on an apron and grabbed a tub filled with dirty dishes. “Nuh-uh. Dad said there wasn’t hardly any war fought in this part of Georgia.” Liberty rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t mean there was nothing. Maybe he crawled home to die.” “Come on, Lib,” I said, tossing her an apron. “We all got kitchen duty—not just Justice and me.

An hour later we were pulling into the hospital parking lot. Sparkly and shiny from my hair and makeup job, I had to stop and bend over six times between the car and the front door of the hospital. I literally couldn’t take a step until each contraction ended. Within an hour after checking in, I was writhing on a hospital bed in all-encompassing pain and wishing once again that I’d gone ahead and moved to Chicago. It had become my default response when things got rough in my life: morning sickness? I should have moved to Chicago. Cow manure in my yard? Chicago would have been a better choice. Contractions less than a minute apart? Windy City, come and get me. Finally, I reached my breaking point. It’s an indescribable feeling, the throes of hard labor--that mind-numbing total body cramp whose origin you can’t even begin to wrap your head around. After trying to be strong and tough in front of Marlboro Man, I finally gave up and gripped the bedsheet and clenched my teeth. I groaned and moaned and pushed the nurse button and whimpered to Marlboro Man, “I can’t do this anymore.” When the nurse came into the room moments later, I begged her to put me out of my misery. My salvation arrived five minutes later in the form of an eight-inch needle, and when the medicine hit I nearly began to cry. The relief was indescribably sweet. I was so blissfully pain-free, I fell asleep. And when I woke up confused and disoriented an hour later, a nurse named Heidi was telling me it was time to push. Almost immediately, Dr. Oliver entered the room, fully scrubbed and wearing a mask. “Are you ready, Mama?” Marlboro Man asked, standing near my shoulders as the nurse draped my legs and adjusted the fetal monitor, which was strapped around my middle. I felt like I’d woken up in the middle of a party. But the weirdest party ever--one where the hostess was putting my feet in stirrups. I ordered Marlboro Man to remain north of my belly button as nurses scurried into place. I’d made it clear beforehand: I didn’t want him down there. I wanted him to continue to get to know me the old-fashioned way--and besides, that’s what we were paying the doctor for. “Go ahead and push once for me,” Dr. Oliver said. I did, but only hard enough to ensure that nothing accidental or embarrassing would slip out. I could think of no greater humiliation. “Okay, that’s not going to work at all,” Dr. Oliver scolded. I pushed again. “Ree,” Dr. Oliver said, looking up at me through the space between my legs. “You can do way better than that.” He’d watched me grow up in the ballet company in our town. He’d watched me contort and leap and spin in everything from The Nutcracker to Swan Lake to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He knew I had the fortitude to will a baby from my loins. That’s when Marlboro Man grabbed my hand, as if to impart to me, his sweaty and slightly weary wife, a measure of his strength and endurance. “Come on, honey,” he said. “You can do it.” A few tense moments later, our baby was born. Except it wasn’t a baby boy. It was a seven-pound, twenty-one-inch baby girl. It was the most important moment of my life. And more ways than one, it was a pivotal moment for Marlboro Man.

An hour later we were pulling into the hospital parking lot. Sparkly and shiny from my hair and makeup job, I had to stop and bend over six times between the car and the front door of the hospital. I literally couldn’t take a step until each contraction ended. Within an hour after checking in, I was writhing on a hospital bed in all-encompassing pain and wishing once again that I’d gone ahead and moved to Chicago. It had become my default response when things got rough in my life: morning sickness? I should have moved to Chicago. Cow manure in my yard? Chicago would have been a better choice. Contractions less than a minute apart? Windy City, come and get me.

Jep, what about the beard? Is it temporary or permanent? Jep: My dad has had his beard for more than twenty-five years, and he’s never going to shave it off. The last time I saw his face was in high school. My beard? I’ve thought about shaving it at some point. But the last time I did, about six years ago, I thought I looked so silly. My beard used to be seasonal. I’d grow in a beard for hunting season and then shave it off although I always got real bad razor burn on the side of my jaw and my neck. My beard was splotchy at first and then finally filled in. Beards are good camouflage because ducks have sharp eyes. Also, the beard really does keep me warm out on the water or the four-wheeler when it’s cold, damp, and windy. If you don’t have a beard, you have to wear something to cover your face. Here’s my advice: you boys, just grow a beard. Now the long hair, I could lose that. It’s pretty uncomfortable in these Louisiana summers.

Ryan doesn’t like faking intimacy, but this, him brushing my hair and taking care of me while sick seems far more intimate than anything we’ve ever done.