“There isn’t going to be a ‘next lover,’” Grant said automatically, outraged by the idea. “I’m the only man she’s going to have.”

“Kissing Kate is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. And as much as I want to think I’m the good guy, as much as I’ve proclaimed that sleeping with an attached girl isn’t my style, I’m not walking away. I can’t. I have her now. She’s mine. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“What’s with her?” says the painter. “She’s mad because she’s a woman,” Jon says. This is something I haven’t heard for years, not since high school. Once it was a shaming thing to say, and crushing to have it said about you, by a man. It implied oddness, deformity, sexual malfunction. I go to the living room doorway. “I’m not mad because I’m a woman,” I say. “I’m mad because you’re an asshole.”

“Ugh. I was going for ‘crazy ex filled with hate" not "isn’t she cute when she’s mad?”

“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.”

“I’m going to hell, Livia,” he said.“I’m going to hell for all three of us,” Beckett said defiantly. Only now did he pull his hand away.“I think you might be a better man than you give yourself credit for,” Livia said, trying to catch his eye again.”