You could forgive a lot if somebody was there to take care of things until you grew up.
The therapist, he thought, and it bothered him a lot more than it should have. After all, he had nothing permanent with Sophie. He just needed to touch her on a semiregular basis or he couldn’t finish his sentences.
He looked like every glossy frat boy in every nerd movie ever made, like every popular town boy who’d ever looked right through her in high school, like every rotten rich kid who’d ever belonged where she hadn’t.
My mama warned me about guys like you.
He turned to her as if he’d heard her and took off his sunglasses, and she went down the steps to meet him, wiping her sweaty palms on her dust-smeared khaki shorts. “Hi, I’m Sophie Dempsey,
You’ve lived in America for twenty years. Eat badly, damn it.
Life is more than great sex and a nice car.
It’s not a problem. There are people out there with much worse problems than mine.”-Cynthia
“Doesn’t make yours any more fun to bear.”-Liza
“No. But it does help with the self-pity.”- Cynthia