Something’s up,’ I say, handing the phone back.‘Not necessarily,’ Jack says. ‘You think this is the first time Lila’s been hot-headed? Seriously, dude, you do remember my sister, right? Short, blonde, impulsive as shock therapy? Stubborn as a mule who won’t take no for an answer?’Does Jack ever listen to himself?Does he appreciate the irony of this statement? I shake my head at him in wonder.‘Hey, I’m not short or blond,’ Jack protests as he catches the look on my face.

Eventually she came. She appeared suddenly, exactly like she'd done that day- she stepped into the sunshine, she jumped, she laughed and threw her head back, so her long ponytail nearly grazed the waistband of her jeans.After that, I couldn't think about anything else. The mole on the inside of her right elbow, like a dark blot of ink. The way she ripped her nails to shreds when she was nervous. Her eyes, deep as a promise. Her stomach, pale and soft and gorgeous, and the tiny dark cavity of her belly button.I nearly went crazy.

For a second we just stand there in silence. Then, suddenly, Alex is back,easy and smiling again. “I left a note for you one time. In the Governor’s fist, youknow?”I left a note for you one time. It’s impossible, too crazy to think about, and Ihear myself repeating, “You left a note for me?”“I’m pretty sure it said something stupid. Just hi, and a smiley face, and myname. But then you stopped coming.” He shrugs. “It’s probably still there. Thenote, I mean. Probably just a bit of paper pulp by now.

If you're a boy, any display of sensitivity is gay. Compassion is gay. Crying is supergay. Reading is usually gay. Certain songs and types of music are gay. 'Enola Gay' would certainly be thought gay. Love songs are gay. Love itself is incredibly gay, as are any other heartfelt emotions. Singing is gay, but chanting is not gay. Wanking contests are not gay. Neither is all-male cuddling during specially designated periods in football matches, or communal bathing thereafter. (I didn't invent the rules of gay - I'm just telling you what they are.)

You know, you hear about these movements for women, and for children, and for people who are any race but white, and you think that it's about time that men got a movement. Think about it. Guys can't play the piano, or dance, or sing. We can't cry, or be too happy, or show any emotion for that matter. The only thing we have left to us is anger, and even that we have to bottle up. Boys should be able to express what they feel and not have to endure people laughing at them, forcing them to wonder if they're gay or not, just because they like to paint.

But if you take off your clothes, I’m sure I can get them dry.”My eyes went wide. “Are you trying tog et my naked?”His silvery gaze met mine. “Do you really need me to answer that?”A hot, sweet flush stole across my cheeks. When he was like this—open, flirty, and downright sexy—I was at my lamest. I wasn’t used to this side of him. I don’t think I ever would be, and there was something thrilling in that. But I stared at him, caught between the images playing out in my head and the very real man standing before me.

Sometimes I think maybe they were right all along, the people on the other side in Zombieland. Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose either. If we didn't get our hearts stomped on, shattered: if we didn't have to patch and repatch until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together and bound up by who knows what. If we could just float along, like snow. But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosions of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?

Do you think me horselike, my lord?"Realizing the threat to his personage, Blackmoor wiped the smile from his face and replied, "Not at all. I said I think you charming.""A fine start.""And I appreciate your exuberance." His eyes glitered with barely contained laughter."Like that of a child." Hers sparkled with irritation."And, of course, you are entertaining.""Excellent. Like the aforementioned child's toy."He couldn't hide a chuckle. "Not at all. You are a far better companion than any of the toys I had as a child.""Oh, I am most flattered.""You should be. I had some tremendous toys.

The most important part of seeing Darla every night wasn’t the fooling around. It was the few minutes we talked while holding each other, the feeling of security I got with her, the feeling of being understood and loved. Before the eruption, I wouldn’t have believed that I could cuddle up every night with the girl who starred in my dreams and not be totally preoccupied with sex. But the trek across Iowa had changed something. I wanted, needed to see her so badly that it woke me up at night. But making out was incidental to my need – nice when it happened, but secondary to the simple pleasure of sleeping beside her.

Alex propped himself against the metal railing where Willow had just stood. "Okay, let's get something straight," he said in Spanish."If you think I don't know you're after my girfriend, you're crazy. And if you try to put any sleazy moves on her while you're here, you're going to regret it." Seb's knapsack was at his feet. He took out a pack of cigarettes; tapped out the last one and lit it.Settling back against the door jamb, he gave Alex a considering, faintly humorous look. "Sleazy moves?" he repeated. "Don't worry, I don't do sleazy moves." "Let me rephrase," said Alex coldly "Any moves, just keep your hands off her.

A cell phone rings. I can feel the vibration through Brittany’s pants. “It’s hers,” I say.“Answer it,” Isa Instructs.I already feel like I’ve kidnapped the girl. Now I’m gonna answer her cell? Shit. Rolling her a bit, I feel for the bulge in her back pocket. “Contesta,” Isa whispers loudly, this time in Spanish.“I am,” I hiss, my fingers clumsy as I fumble for the phone.“I’ll do it,” Paco says, leaning over the seats and reaching toward Brittany’s ass.I whack his hand away. “Get your hands off her.”“Geez, man, I was just tryin’ to help.”My response is a glare.

Brittany Ellis, I'm goin' to prove to you I'm the guy you believed in ten months ago, and I'm gonna be the successful man you dreamed I could be. My plan is to ask you to marry me four years from now, the day we graduate."'And I guarantee you a lifetime of fun, probably one with no lack of fightin', for you are one passionate mamacita . . . but I definitely look forward to some great make-up sessions. Maybe one day we can even go back to Fairfield and help make it the place my dad always hoped it would be. You, me, and Shelley. And any other Fuentes or Ellis family member who wants to be a part of our lives. We'll be one big, crazy Mexican-American family. What do you think? Mujer, you own my soul.

But the fantasy kingdom and trappings of success soon lost their luster, as I discovered that the most prestigious and remunerative of my resume's way stations was also the most tedious and unfulfilling I had ever experienced. This paradox only made me more morose about modernity. Why was I going to watch my hairline recede in front of two-thousand-line spreadsheets staring at me from cold, glowing monitors? Why was everyone in my office apparently so happy to be spending so many hours there, when the things they really cared about - people, pets, pastimes - were all relegated to a few photographs on their desks? That seemed to be the formula: spend the best years of your life in an office with photos of what you really care about.

Te mereces a alguien que te ame con todo su corazón, alguien que piense en ti constantemente, alguien que pase cada minuto de cada día preguntándose qué estás haciendo, dónde estás, con quién estás y si estás bien. Necesitas a alguien que te ayude a hacer realidad tus sueños y que sepa protegerte de tus temores. Necesitas a alguien que te trate con respeto, que ame cada parte de ti, sobre todo tus defectos. Deberías estar con alguien que supiera hacerte feliz, realmente feliz, que te hiciera sentir en las nubes de tanta felicidad. Alguien que no tendría que haber dejado escapar la oportunidad de estar contigo años atrás en lugar de asustarse y dejarse dominar por el miedo a intentarlo.

He was done talking. Aiden came off the wall so fast the water reacted in a frenzy of bubbling. He—we—were in a frenzy. His arms crushed me to him, his mouth demanding, saying those three little words over and over again without speaking them. Aiden lifted me up, one hand burying deep in my hair, the other pressing into my lower back, fitting us together. He turned and my back was against the edge and he was everywhere all at once, stealing my breath, my heart, my soul. There was no coming up for air, no control or limits. There was no tottering on the edge. We both fell headfirst. In his arms, in the way the water bubbled and moved with our bodies, I may’ve lost track of time, but I gained a little part of me. I gained a part of him that U would hold close for the rest of my days, no matter how long or short that turned out to be.