Rainbow Rowell

I don’t want to think about an after.’

for a world of suck to hit the fan.

Oliver’s Story had made the cut, but Love Story hadn’t. And Little Men was there, but not Little Women or Jo’s Boys.

Brains love poetry.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…’

“Look at her,” Cal said, “she’s a Betty.”

“Jungle fever is a thing,

“If it were me,” he rasps, “if I were you…”

He bites and bites.

“I’d drain you fuckin’ dry, Baz, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Plus, as soon as Baz is unhappy, that’s all I can think about. I’m crazy about all his little fretful faces, and I also want to be the thing that chases them away. I think I might be willing to make him miserable just for the thrill of making it better. That’s fucked up, isn’t it?

Snow nods. “Yeah,” he says, “of course.”

Like it’s obvious.

It isn’t obvious. It has not been obvious.

“You never said,” I say.

“Haven’t I?”

“No.”

He frowns. “I thought—I mean . . . I’ve killed so many things for you.”