Maybe I stop talking because I don't know what to say. Or maybe I stop because I finally get that sometimes we hold on to something--a person, a resentment, a regret, an idea of who we are--because we don't know what to reach for next. That what we've done before is what we have to do again. That there are only re-dos and no do-overs. And maybe...maybe I know better than that.

God, I wish, for the millionth time, that I could be like her and Nic, so sure of what they have, what they want. That I didn't always feel jangly, restless, primed to jump off a bridge and let the current carry me away.

The combined odors of Cass's subtle aftershave and the disgusting reek of Nic are overpowering. I wonder if Cass will keel over and I'll have to perform CPR. This speculation should not feel so much like a fantasy.

Is Jase already gonna marry you?”

I start coughing again. “Uh, No. No, George. I’m only seventeen.” As if that’s the only reason we’re not engaged.

“I’m this many.” George holds up four, slightly grubby fingers. “But Jase is seventeen and a half. You could. Then you could live in here with him. And have a big family.”

Jase strides back into the room, of course, midway through this proposition. “George. Beat it. Discovery Channel is on.”

George backs out of the room but not before saying, “His bed’s really comfortable. And he never pees in it.

Voldemort the corn snake with the shoe fetish. Wonderful.

Well, Samantha... you were introduced to this guy. It went downhill from there. That might make it justifiable homicide. From time to time, I've wanted to kill people I knew even less well... strangers in supermarkets."

Am I on my roof with a psychopath?