“Bug spray.” Mosquitoes never bother me, but apparently they eat Tucker alive if he forgets bug spray. So I wear it for solidarity. “All the kids wearit,” I explain to Mom. “They say the mosquito is the Wyoming state bird.”

“I close my eyes again. There’s the smell of mountain snow on the air. I shiver. I would have brought a coat if I’d known I was going to be in Wyoming today. I’m a wuss about cold.You’re my California flower, I remember Tucker saying to me once. We were sitting on the pasture fence at the Lazy Dog, watching his dad break in a colt, the leaves in the trees red just like they are today. I started shivering so hard my teeth actually began to chatter, and Tucker laughed at me and called me that—his delicate California flower— and wrapped me in his coat.”

“Tucker," I say. "I'm so glad you're still here."I throw myself into his arms. He hugs me tightly."I couldn't leave," he says."I know.""I mean, literally. I don't have a ride.”

“When I was a kid my mom used to tell me that if i have sex before i was married, my... junk would turn black and fall off.”

“Sir Tucker,” I say suddenly, interrupting Angela.“Yeah?”“I believe the correct response is, ‘yes, Your Majesty,”

“This isn't going to become one of those creepy situations where you show up at all hours of the night to watch me sleep, is it?" [Tucker] asks playfully."Every moment I'm away from you, I die a little," I say in return.”

“It doesn't taste anything like the drink I had at the party with Tucker. And now, almost two years later, I realize why. Tucker never put any rum in my rum and Coke. That little stink. That overly protective, impossible, infuriating, and utterly sweet little stink.In that moment I miss him so much my stomach hurts.”