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320 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 6, 2021
“I want to believe there are still wonders out there left unspoiled.”
“And all along, you were just out here.” I am off the rails now.
“Being you. And I was over there, not even knowing.”
I feel like I’ve finally found home.
"I'm not that strong at all," he replies modestly, head duckling, "but for you, I can be strong enough."
His eyes have no equal, truly. They're like stones in a riverbed. They're bornze coins. They're the leather journal of a sad, sensitive empath who writes poetry about lost lovers.
"I think you are beautiful, too, Maybell. I think that you walked into my life and absolutely ruined it with how beautiful you are. I haven't gotten a single decent night's rest since we met."
"There’s a superstition about luck, and it goes like this: a run of bad luck is followed by a run of good luck. This is the silver lining, the softening edges."
"I don’t realize I’ve been daydreaming until a loud noise jars me, and when I check the clock, I’ll find I’ve lost an hour. A whole hour, just gone. The more anxious or stressed or lonely I am in reality, the less time I’m inclined to spend in it."
"Maybell Parrishes don’t cycle through the five stages of grief. We burrow into the denial leg of the journey like tourists overstaying our welcome and live there forever and ever. We also chug peppermint hot cocoa whenever we’re drowning in dramatic passions (I’m on my third pint of the day) and mythologize ourselves in the plural."
"When you live with somebody long enough, you pick up kernels of information about each other that lead to anticipating what the other person might say or do, how they might react in any situation. You learn their habits, you establish rituals. You grow comfortable."
"Crushes are fun in theory (ask me about my many dreamland husbands), but in reality, they’re energy vampires that are more trouble than they’re worth. The preoccupation is exhausting. I get sick to my stomach from swallowing too many butterflies, I lose sleep, my already intrusive penchant for fantasizing levels up a thousand degrees. I start worrying too much about whether my hair looks perfect or if I’m talking too loud, and prescription-strength deodorant becomes the safety pin holding my precarious shit together. All this emotional work, only to always end up being hurt by it? When I drag a glance over my dating history, the polls are conclusive. Nothing good ever comes from a crush."
"At thirty years old, I am finally accepting that I am simply nobody else but myself. I will always only be me. A little bit naïve, a lot idealistic. In the regard of many, understated to the point of forgettable, and easy prey, because my heart is so large a target. But those who deserve to be in my circle will like me just as I am, and will treat me the way I deserve to be treated."
We Maybells see your 'You can’t do this' and we raise you an 'It may take me longer, but just watch me.' I raise my glass of lemonade in a toast to myself. “We’re weeds growing out of the cracks in concrete: even when we should have been defeated long ago, you can’t keep us down.”