No matter what happens next, I'm not letting this turn into another two weeks of silence, the entire history of us summed up in a series of near misses and almosts just because neither of us had the snowballs to say anything.

I follow the path we’ve taken so many times this summer – across the front, down the street, cut back through a neighbor’s yard, down the stairs to the beach, past the pier, through the campfire labyrinth, up to the deck of the Shack, and straight into Sam’s arms.
Without speaking, he kisses me hard on the mouth and I kiss him back, sobbing and crumpling into his chest like a broken puppet.

I'm not sure if you even want me around or if you just feel sorry for me. I'm not sure of anything.

Mom asked for a cupcake miracle? Well, here comes the freaking holy angel of icing, at your service. --Hudson

Angel icing? That's the craziest, corniest, most whack-ass stuff I've heard in my life

No one wants to do it with a chick who smells like bacon."

Her brow creases. "Everybody loves bacon.

No powdery residue. But definitely suspicious. Smell." He slides a makeup catalog from beneath a microscope made out of a plate, a toilet paper roll, and an intricate arrangement of pipe cleaners. "Any ideas?"

I take a scientific whiff. "Gardenia. Looks like those Mary Kay terrorists are at it again.