“My parents’ names are Rebecca and Jeremiah, by the way,” he whispered as I approached him. I laughed, jittery. “Got it. So even though they’ll be too busy screaming at you, and they can’t hear me anyway, I’ll at least be able to address them properly?”

“And your parents, believe me—I don’t care what kind of relationship you’ve got with them—they’ll take you up on that offer. You share that sandwich with them—are you hearing me?—you share that glory sandwich with them and they’ll love you forever.”

“You’ll wear loads of face powder and rouge.”“They’ll itch.” She knew from experimenting with Cousin Augusta’s.“And you must use a false name.”“I’ll forget it. I know it.”He sighed. “You can’t afford to forget it.”“Then it must be Delilah,” she said. “It’s the only name I’ll be able to remember.”“Why Delilah?”“I don’t know. But I already know I won’t forget it.”

“Every night I pray I whisper into a megaphone, not only so God is sure to hear, but also my neighbors, because I pray to God He’ll deliver pestilence and plague to the residents next door. I even tell God the exact address, as if He can’t read my heart. But it’s not for His benefit, it’s for my neighbors’.”

“I can’t stop thinking about doing this to you,” he whispers, so quietly I can barely hear him. “Tell me to stop now if you don’t want this. If you don’t want me.”

“Grace," he whispered as he slid his fingers over my swollen lips. "I want to be inside you so damn bad right now. But when I do that, I want to hear you scream my fucking name as you claw your nails down my back.”