The older woman waiting for admittance looked at me, then over her shoulder at Patch, who was vanishing down the hall. “Honey,” she told me, “he looks slippery as soap.

I saw you, and I wanted to be close to you. I wanted you to let me in. I wanted to know you in a way no one else did. I wanted you, all of you. That wanting nearly drove me mad.” Patch paused, inhaling softly, as though breathing me in. “And now that I have you, the only thing that terrifies me is having to go back to that place. Having to want you all over again, with no hope of my desire ever being fulfilled. You’re mine, Angel. Every last piece of you. I won’t let anything change that.

I couldn't stand here, hanging on, when the very thing I held disappeared more with each passing day.

Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me.

The sensible part of me wanted to dissect my emotions, overthinking and overcomplicating my reaction to Jev.

Have you finished your column for tomorrow's headline?" It was Vee. She came up beside me, jotting notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. "I'm thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning.

She already has a car.” “A Ford. That’s like Toyota’s worst enemy.