He didn't want Lucy to grow up feeling alone, surrounded by everything and having nothing.

We were innocent once. How could it have gone so bad?

Al's voice was faint but resolute. "Stand up. Try to look sexy." "In a bedsheet?" I complained, running my hands down it. "How can I look sexy in a bedsheet?" He cleared his throat, and I grimaced. "Never mind.

I wish I could say I write 9-5. It's usually more like 8-6, every day but the weekends.

He's going to hurt you," Al said, looking at Pierce. "I can take care of you, teach you to survive. Be there for you, even if you do hate me." I shivered. "I don't want him," I said, and Al turned away, seeming smaller somehow.

She smiled with the warmth of a penguin.

She's not your type. Since when do I have a type?