All Broke Down

Dudes who look dangerous should just be dangerous. Period. The end. They should not be dangerous and beautiful all at the same time. It leaves the universe out of balance, and it makes me do stupid things like stare.

I will never be able to turn this girl down. Whatever she wants from me, it’s hers. No matter what she asks for, I’ll find a way to give it to her. She may not be mine, but somewhere along the way, I ended up hers.

I know now why caring about another person is so damn scary. It’s not that they won’t care about you back, because that either happens or it doesn’t. You live with it or you do everything you can to change it. The really scary thing is the moment you realize that for the rest of your life, you’ll feel twice the pain, twice the joy, twice the fear. Twice as helpless to control it all, too.

Only you would pick up a girl in jail." "Only I could.

Why isn’t there a reality TV show filled with hot guys doing sweaty, mouthwatering tasks? Oh, right. That’s called sports

You're really hitting on me? After we just met in jail?" "Is it working?

He might not have a good head on his shoulders, but he has good shoulders, so that's close, right?

There's a fine line between broody and potential sociopath. Right now you're walking the line.

Except I’m starting to think that the idea of “belonging” anywhere is false. We go through our whole lives thinking that we belong in one place and not in another. We think certain ideas and actions have to be relegated to the tiny little boxes we place them in. What if we just react instead? What if we take whatever the world gives us and instead of focusing on what it isn’t, we enjoy what it is?

He's right you know. I will pull you down with me." I lift my chin and reply, "If I go down, it will be because I jumped, not because you made me fall.

Of course I want you. Have you seen you?" "I see you." She swallows, and her eyes bore into mine when she replies. "Yeah, I think you do.

Fact is, knowing what you want and knowing who you are...those are two separate things. One is complicated. The other isn't. You're trying to take something simple and make it hard, and there's enough hard things in life without you adding more for yourself.

I’m figuring out what I want by trial and error, and maybe that’s not the best way, but it’s all I’ve got. All I know is that I need to be my own person, someone shaped by my desire, not fear of disappointing the people who are supposed to love me.

I drop my head against the steering wheel and groan. "You are in so much trouble, Dylan Brenner." And trouble's name is Silas Moore.

It's such a stupid thing. I've had my arm around more girls that I could possibly remember, but in this moment with this girl, who is so far above me I might as well be trying to scoop up the stars, it feels a little bit like a hard-earned first down.

Haven't you ever wanted to do something that everyone tells you is impossible and pointless? Haven't you ever cared about something enough to sacrifice for it? Regardless of how stupid or unlikely it seems. Haven't you ever wanted things to be different?

So he doesn’t tick any of my usual boxes, but there’s something in the way he looks at me. In his eyes, there’s this strange kind of appreciation that is part attraction, part something else that makes me feel rare and precious and . . . seen.

He blocks out the sun, and maybe it’s the pain or maybe it’s just him, but it feels like one of those rare total eclipses where you know you’re not supposed to look because it can destroy your eyes or something, but it’s so incredible that you can’t help it.

I'm not dealing with it at all. I'm fucking disintergrating, but I'm not dealing.

Then she's gone, and it feels like everything I've built here is seconds away from crumbling around me. Like a house of cards destroyed by a simple breath. And all I can think is if things are going to fall apart, I'm not going to stand here trying to catch the pieces.

I’ll make you a deal. A question for a kiss.

There’s a truth you learn early on in the activism scene . . . most protests are lost before they even start. We hope for change. Beg for it. But even when we know it won’t come, still we stand with our signs and say our chants. Still we show up. Because to lie down and say nothing means the cause dies with us, and a little piece of us with it. So we chant. And we chant. And we say the same words again and again and again. Louder and louder. We do it to put words to the ache we feel in our hearts. And there’s this small, innocent hope somewhere in the back of our minds that even if there’s no point, even if it’s a done deal . . . we hope that if we say something enough times, people will listen. Or that if we say it enough, it will finally make sense.

Getting angry at him won’t change the fact that you’re angry at yourself.

Silas doesn't know how to be friends with girls. Either he'll break your heart or you'll break his.

Jesus. That low, teasing tone is like a punch straight to the chest. Or the babymaker. Both, really. “I’m just not a big fan of blood.” His lips are still at my ear, and he lowers his volume so that Matt won’t hear. “I promise not to get you dirty. Unless you ask real nice.” I don’t even . . . I can’t . . . Oh my God. I plant my elbow in his side and use it to pry myself a little space. “You’re incorrigible.” “You’re gonna have to use smaller words with me, Pickle. Or better yet, no words at all.

As readers, as people, we might not have the capacity to change the justice system. But as Dylan says in the book, we can change one person’s perspective at a time. We can notice. We can speak up. We can teach this generation, my generation, that the way sexual assault is viewed and treated in this country is not okay, so that when it is our turn to step into the shoes of political office and criminal justice, we can continue changing the narrative from a place of power. And more than anything, we can support. And we can empower. We can love. We can be better.

perfect doesn’t guarantee me anything. I can’t control whether other people will want me or love me or even like me. I can only control how I feel about myself. And that’s something I’m still discovering day by day.

I don’t know why, but most of my life has felt . . . conditional, like my parents and Henry and everyone else accepted me because I filled these holes in their lives. And I made sure I filled them perfectly because that was how I belonged, how I guaranteed my spot, by never failing to live up to their expectations. As long as I was perfect, they would have no need to cut me loose.

When you live a hard life, you spend years wishing for the easy stuff, but then when you get it, it never feels right. You get used to having to fight and claw for the things you want, and when you don’t have to do that anymore, everything feels a little bit muted.

If I go down, it will be because I jumped, not because you made me fall.