“What’s love when you’re too fucked up to feel it right?I think it’s a weapon.”

“The way I feel about you . . . it’s crazy.”“You got the crazy part right,” she snapped, pulling away from me.“I practiced this in my head the whole time we were on the bike, so just hear me out.”“Travis—”“I know we’re fucked-up, all right? I’m impulsive and hot tempered, and you get under my skin like no one else. You act like you hate me one minute, and then you need me the next. I never get anything right, and I don’t deserve you . . . but I fucking love you, Abby. I love you more than I’ve loved anyone or anything, ever. When you’re around, I don’t need booze or money or the fighting or the one-night stands . . . all I need is you. You’re all I think about. You’re all I dream about. You’re all I want.”

“I’ll check on you when I get home. I love you, baby. (Kiefer)I love you too, Daddy. (Kiara)What the hell was that action? (Syn)I think it’s something called ‘paternal concern.’ (Nykyrian)What…? You sure? I thought that crap was a myth. (Syn)No, really. I watched it once in a documentary. It was fascinating. Believe it or not, there are people out there who actually have feelings for their progeny. (Nykyrian)Get the fuck out. No way. You’re screwing with my head again, aren’t you? (Syn)No, I swear. You just saw it with your own eyes. I did not make that shit up. (Nykyrian)Yeah but it’s really messing with my concept of the natural order of the universe. Paternal love? What’s next? Limb regrowth? Genetic splicing reversals? (Syn)”

“I think you fall in love with someone when you least expect to. When it’s the last thing you want. That’s what’s so great about it.”

“I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. If you fucking like something, like it. That’s what’s wrong with our generation: that residual punk rock guilt, like, “You’re not supposed to like that. That’s not fucking cool.” Don’t fucking think it’s not cool to like Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” It is cool to like Britney Spears’ “Toxic”! Why the fuck not? Fuck you! That’s who I am, goddamn it! That whole guilty pleasure thing is full of fucking shit.”

“I love you, Gideon.”“God.” He looked at me with something that resembled disgust. Whether it was directed at me or himself, I didn’t know. “How can you say that?”“Because it’s the truth.”“You just see this”—he gestured at himself with a wave of his hand. “You’re not seeing the fucked-up, broken mess inside.”I inhaled sharply. “You can say that to me? When you know I’m fucked up and broken, too?”