“the only way to tolerate the thought of her mother sleeping with that man was to get drunk-very drunk.”

“Not that she didn't love almost every boy she'd ever met, and not that every boy in the world didn't totally love her. It was impossible not to. But she wanted someone to love her and shower her with attention the way only a boy who was completely in love with her could. The rare sort of love. True love. The kind of love she'd never had.”

“Tinsley hated the thought of people greeting her with “Where's Julian?” It was like once you were a couple, you ceased to exist as an individual. It made her a little sick to her stomach.”

“Was her whole life going to be like this now, avoiding certain songs or music that reminded her of her mistakes? Billie Holiday made her think of Eric Dalton; Iron & Wine was Jeremiah; and if things didn’t work out with Kara, she’d never be able to listen to Bob Dylan again. By the time she reached her twenties, she’d be a huge, lumbering mass of musical baggage.”

“Tinsley felt like a puppeteer playing with her marionettes, holding all the strings.”

“It's fine.” Brett shrugged, suppressing the urge to say something like, “The drugs are okay, but the sex is lousy.” But she didn't want her suddenly nun-like sister to have a heart attack before Brett got a chance to pump her for information.”

“She was doing that thing some people do when they act nice and chipper and interested, while just below the surface they’re thinking really mean thoughts, and you can never call them on it because they’d just accuse you of being paranoid.”