Wedding Night

You fall in and out of love, but when you really love someone...it's forever.

Youth is still where you left it, and that's where it should stay. Anything that was worth taking on life's journey, you'll already have taken with you.

Oh, please. If she's going to use Mr. Darcy to prop up her arguments, I give up.

Men who want to get married propose. You don’t need to read the signs. They propose and that’s the sign.

Je t'aime, Lottie. Plus qu'un zloty." I hesitate, not sure what to say. "Well, it's a start...." "'I love you, Lottie, More that a zloty'?" Lorcan translates incredulously. "Seriously?" "Lottie's a difficult rhyme!" Richard says defensively. "You try!" "You could have used 'potty,'" suggests Noah. "'I love you, Lottie, Sitting on the potty.'" "Thanks, Noah," says Richard grouchily. "Appreciate it.

A divorce is like a controlled explosion. Everyone on the outside is OK.

I stare at him in indignation. This changes what? I was his guardian angel till three minutes ago. You can't just switch guardian angels because you feel like it.

You can't switch sides!" I glare at him in fury. "I was never on your side," retorts Lorcan. "Your side is the nutty side.

One thing: I can damn well wear lipstick.

He is a terrible human being. He's a shit. So don't dwell on him. Flush him out of your life. Gone.

And, no, they haven't done it." I put him out of his misery. "Done what?" asks Noah. "Put the sausage in the cupcake," says Lorcan, draining his coffee. "Lorcan!" I snap. "Don't say things like that!" Noah explodes with laughter. "Put the sausage in the cupcake!" he crows. "The sausage in the cupcake!" Great. I glare at Lorcan, who stares back, unmoved. And, anyway, cupcake? I've never heard it called that.

I trail away into silence. I've just shared details of my condom use with my son's teacher. I'm not sure how that happened.

If Muhammad won't come to the mountain, the mountain has to cancel all his plans and get on a plane.

I hesitate a moment. Wearing his dressing gown seems a bit cutesy. A bit Let me put on your great big manly shirt and allow the sleeves to flap endearingly around my fingers. But I have no choice.

He even said you once threw al your husband's clothes onto the street and invited the neighbors to help themselves!" says Ellen with a bright laugh. "He's got such an imagination!" My face flames. Damn. I thought he was asleep when I did that.

My great moment of triumph ... It's all turned to dust. I wasn't the heroine of the hour. I was the thoughtless, stupid villain.

I feel scalded inside. Like, third-degree burns. But no one can see them. (Fliss talking about her divorce.)

teacher in class. “The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” I mumble finally, staring at my fingernails. “The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” he repeats with emphasis. “The judge will never read a two-hundred-page dossier on Daniel’s shortcomings aloud in court, while a crowd jeers at your ex-husband. He will never start his summing up, ‘Ms. Graveney, you are a saint to have put up with such an evil scumbag and I thus award you everything you want.’ ” I can’t help coloring. That is pretty much my Divorce Fantasy. Except in my version, the crowd throws bottles at Daniel too. “Daniel will never admit to being wrong,” Barnaby presses on relentlessly. “He’ll never stand in front of the judge, weeping and saying, ‘Fliss, please forgive me.’ The papers will never report your divorce with the headline: TOTAL SHIT ADMITS FULL SHITTINESS IN COURT.” I can’t help half-snorting with laughter. “I do know that.” “Do you, Fliss?” Barnaby sounds skeptical. “Are you sure about that? Or are you still expecting him to wake up one day and realize all the bad things he’s done? Because you have to understand, Daniel will never realize anything. He’ll never confess to being a terrible human being. I could spend a thousand hours on this case, it would still never happen.

I can’t believe how much damage has been done, just from teenage loves meeting again. People should never come into contact with their first loves, I decide. There should be some official form of quarantine. The rule should be: you break up with your teenage lover and that’s it. One of you has to emigrate.

He’s lithe and tanned and taut. But to my eye he’s lost something. He has a synthetic quality, like orange soda instead of freshly squeezed juice. It’s orangey and bubbly and it quenches your thirst, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. And it’s not good for you.

On impulse, I go round the small clearing, picking up all the trash, working with a burst of energy. There isn't a rubbish bin, but I gather it together and put it next to a large rock. My life might be a mess, but I can clear a patch of land, at least.

But even bitterness fades away eventually. We both have to believE that. Don't we?