The Boy Most Likely To

God, I hate it when people even say there are types, like people come in flavors.

It’s not rocket science, Nan. You show someone they matter to you—do whatever it takes to show that.

Tim, I’d chew you up and spit you out.” She slants forward, yanks the straps of her bikini behind her neck, ties them, and settles back. God. I almost can’t breathe. But I can talk. I can always talk. “We could progress to that, Alice. But maybe we start with some gentle nibbling?” Alice shuts her eyes, opens them again, and gives me an indecipherable look. “Why don’t I scare you?” she asks. “You do. You’re scary as hell,” I assure her. “But that works for me. Completely.

What did you have on your feet this time?” I ask. “Toes,” he replies easily, and grins at me, lifting one long foot to put it on the sill of the car, wiggling his toes for emphasis. There’s a jagged open cut near his big toenail. “Well, toes and blood. Cut it on a shell. But I made it all the way to the pier this time. Very Navy Seal, huh? Ran right through the pain, because I am just that full of testosterone.

Everyone who makes a mistake isn’t doomed to be an asshole forever.

Guys hate anticipation. That’s why we all write about satisfaction. Why we never wrap presents. I notice you wrapped mine.” “I thought it was because you’re all too cheap to buy wrapping paper. Or too clueless to find it in the store.” “There’s that. But honestly, you go to the trouble of getting someone a present, something you think they’d like—why hide it and make them work for it? It’s coy.

I could always get by on a fake ID, calm face, and a smile. My sister could look guilty saying her prayers.

You can choose where your feet take you, man. That’s Dominic again, who’s like my own little Jiminy Cricket, Portuguese fisherman style.

Give someone a break, Alice. Maybe he’s genuinely sorry. Maybe he really thinks he blew it. Maybe he’s one of those poor bastards who doesn’t know what he has until it’s gone. Maybe he sees what a great girl Andy is and wants to honestly, actually get to know her. Everyone who makes a mistake isn’t doomed to be an asshole forever.

Tim Mason. The human equivalent of C-4.

Maybe thinking any one person can show up and give you all you need is as much of a delusion as thinking you can find truth in a bottle. Maybe you can just find what you need in little pieces, in people who show up for one crucial moment--or a whole chain of them--even if they can't solve it all. Maybe this is the secret of big families, like the Garretts...and like AA. People's strengths can take their turn. There can be more of us than there is trouble.

I’ve been sober nearly two months, but I have yet to go cold turkey on assholicism.

This boy. Eyes on my face again, little smile lurking, just barely parenthesizing the corners of his lips. He lifts his eyebrows, waiting. And willing to. However long.

People's strengths can take their turn. There can be more of us than their is trouble.

Grace Reed: the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every wake.

Could this guy sound a little less like a fortune cookie on acid?

Like the whole wide world is dazzling with potential. Another word for hope.

What am I doing with you?” Alice whispers, sliding her hands up my back. “This is crazy,” she says, shifting her hips to accommodate me. “You’re a kid.” “I’m not a kid. And you know it.

Maybe thinking any one person can show up and give you all you need is as much of a delusion as thinking you can find truth in a bottle. Maybe you can just find what you need in little pieces, in people who show up for one crucial moment - or a whole chain of them - even if they cant solve it all.

Making love. I’ve cringed every time Hester used those words. So off and awkward and unrelated to what actually goes on between two bodies. You make breakfast, you make time, you make the team. Love? Not so much. But I get it now. Like making fire. Not rubbing two sticks together to pull something out of thin air. More like finally being able, knowing enough, to warm your hands at something you built, stick by stick.

Yeah so - nothing gets lost. Cal isn't, and not just because he'll still be a little part of my life. I get to carry him with me, the way you do all your memories and mistakes. He started out a mistake I had no memory of, and he wound up being, well, my kid. Maybe thinking any one person can show up and give you all you need is as much of a delusion as thinking you can find truth in a bottle. Maybe you can just find what you need in little pieces, in people who show up for one crucial moment - or a whole chain of them - even if they can't solve it all. Maybe this is the secret of big families, like the Garretts...and like AA. People's strengths can take their turn. There can be more of us than their is trouble.

Why don't I scare you?"she askes. "You do. You're scary as hell," I assure her. "But that works for me. Completely.

Her lips touch just against my mouth, then the cleft of my chin, back to my lips. 'Good night, Tim.' My lips on her forehead. 'Good night, Alice.' I can't remember ever having something and not reaching for more. But I back away from her, hands in my pockets. Enough.

That’s what you do. With your father. You flip it. Just sort of own whatever it is. Not just with him. You do it a lot. ‘Everything’s funny if you look at it the right way.