“It's not as bad as Taylor Swift,” he says.“What did Taylor Swift ever do to you?” I ask, defensively.“Nothing,” he smirks, slowing down as we pull into the yard.“Just wondered what you'd say. Come on.”

“Twenty minutes 'til 9, we're getting in the truck. I'm sweaty,stinky and covered in red mud. I'm not sure what Logan smellslike and I don't plan on getting close enough to find out.“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” he asks, as weride along the quiet, foggy, gravel road in the dark.“Alive,” I say, thoughtlessly.“I like that. Aim low,” he retorts.”

“He laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. I roll myeyes and pretend not to notice how very bad he is at dancing orhow adorable he looks when he throws his head back andchuckles. Luke Bryan comes on the radio. Boy am I in trouble.”

“Ryan Seacrest: Trouble, trouble trouble. So why do girls go for the bad guys, what is it Taylor Swift? Why?Taylor Swift: Because maybe we could change them! Everybody wants to like tame a lion.”

“Look back at history,” he said, after a minute or two. “Mostgreat and remarkable men weren't tame or politically correct.They were raving loonies. They acted out. Heroes are badasses,not alter-boys.”“You don't think Jesus was a hero?” I asked.“Jesus was the bad-ass,” he said, chuckling a little. “...talkabout somebody knowing how to make some noise.”Nick confused me. Half the time what he said soundedcompletely hypocritical. The other half of the time, what he saidsounded completely insane. He always had an opinion though,no matter how nonsensical it was to me. I admired that abouthim.“You think Jesus would throw a book at someone?” I asked,before I could stop myself.His eyes popped open. I dropped my pen again. He sat upstraight and focused his eyes on me.“I'm not Jesus,” he said simply.No kidding.”

“Two minutes into the dance, I'm sitting in a metal chair in thedark, listening to a really annoying Justin Bieber song blaringover the crackling speakers. The song changes. Everyone startsto pair off. I look over at him. He's looking around. Please, Jesusdon't let him ask me to dance.“Hey,” he says. “You wanna...”“No,” I interrupt.I catch him chuckling out of the corner of my eyes. This danceis really stupid. I'm over it. Before I can finish my thought, he'sstanding up. I look him over.“Come on,” he says, tugging at my hand. “Lets get out of here.”

“He’s a gloomy sort. I noticed that right away. When he smiles though, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. When he smiles at me, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.”