“Mom. He didn't do drugs. I've told you that before. He was just weird.”

“He instantly covers my fingers with his own, giving me his slow, intoxicating smile. I feel a pang, as though I'm handing over a part of myself I've never offered before.”

“How could Clay have said all that, smooth as Kentucky bourbon, and Mom just sitting there as if she’d already drunk the bottle...”

“You can't do this. You have to give me a chance to fix whatever it is I've done. What have I done?”

“You have to kiss me," I find myself saying. "Yeah." He leans closer. "I do.”

“Do you know how many times I've read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" to this kid? That is one fucked-up story. How is that a book for babies?”

“It's just whether you're going to do a decent thing or keep doing shitty things. So choose. Just stop whining about it.”