“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.”

“I just like meeting people.”“I don't.” Tinsley wrinkled her nose. “It upsets my balance. I hate having to constantly reconfigure everyone, who fits where and all that.”

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

“The jukebox changed to Elvis’s “Don’t Be Cruel,” and Tinsley smiled her patented Carmichael smile, the one that seemed to say, I’m holding all the cards, but be honored that I’ve let you play.”

“Fuck you,” Tinsley shot back, but it was one of those friendly fuck-yous that you can only say to people you love.”

“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.”

“Instead, she poured herself another drink. Tinsley was horrible, yes, but at least she was open about it. Callie couldn’t help feeling like Brett and Jenny were just as bad … just more secretive. But maybe it was just the wine talking. Maybe.”