I was the only one who knew the whole truth about Lucas--who he really was, and what we felt for each other. The truth was all I had left of him, and I would have to carry it alone.

I wonder how much of the rest of his clothes I could convince him to take off, then wonder where that thought came from. Well I guess I know.

Every single day was just a box on the calendar that I could put a red X through; each one brought me closer to Lucas and to liberty.

It’s funny—when people call you “shy,” they usually smile. Like it’s cute, some funny little habit you’ll grow out of when you’re older, like the gaps in your grin when your baby teeth fall out. If they knew how it felt—really being shy, not just unsure at first—they wouldn’t smile. Not if they knew how the feeling knots up your stomach or makes your palms sweat or robs you of the ability to say anything that makes sense. It’s not cute at all.

It wasn't badass. I don't really do badass.

You're impossible," he murmured. "But you're worth it.

I’m going, and don’t you dare try to stop me.” I ran through the door, willing myself to make it downstairs before I started to cry.