Stacy Kramer

“What are you talking about? You’re like a professional boyfriend.”“Thanks. You make me sound like a gigolo.”

“You were worried about me?” “Of course I was, buddy. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened. You didn’t think I’d be worried about you?” “No. I didn’t think you cared.” Dad looks sad. And surprised. I’m not sure why. “Really, buddy? You didn’t think I cared?” “No.” “Well, I do. A lot.” “Okay.” “I guess I need to do a better job of showing you.” “Yes. You could do a better job.” Dad laughs. And he hugs me again.”

“Here’s the list of stuff I don’t like: apples, the fork in my bowl, Honey Nut Cheerios, eggplant parmesan, worms, watching baseball, and Taylor Swift.”

“Guys find me neutered, detached, invisible. I’m Switzerland. The girls Max dates are Brazil.”

“I play by the rules even when there aren’t any.”

“We both smile at the classic misunderstanding. It’s all so cliché-ridden, it’s embarrassing. I wish our story could have some more original twists and turns. Maybe one of us will turn into a vampire or something.”

“See what I mean? Your confidence is so strong it’s obnoxious.”