Don't find peace. Find passion.

You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you while you were out.”
I smiled a little. “How?”
“Like you’re the ocean and he’s desperate to drown.” 

My chest, Stella’s hip, Jamie’s left ass cheek.

Ladies and gentlemen, Jamal Feldstein-Roth.”
I blinked. “Wait, Jamal?”
“Suck it,” he said with a grin. “My parents are liberal Jews from Long Island, okay? They wanted me to have a connection to my heritage.” Jamie made air quotes with his fingers.
“I’m not judging—my middle name is Amitra. I’m just surprised.”
“Amitra,” Noah amused. “Mystery solved.”
“What is that?” Jamie asked me.
“Sanskrit? Hindi?” I shrugged.
“Randomly?”
I shook my head. “My mom’s Indian.”
“What does that mean?” Jamie asked me.
“What does Jamal mean?” I asked him.
“Point taken.

He could never use you. You own him. You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you while you were out.”
I smiled a little. “How?”
“Like you’re the ocean and he’s desperate to drown.

This is a love story. Twisted and messy. Flawed and screwed up. But it's ours. It's us. I don't know how our story will end. but I know it will start. I pick up my pen and begin to write:

My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something.