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352 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 31, 2015
'Every woman has one. That name you Google at two o’clock in the morning. That intoxicating connection that somehow never solidified into anything real; that particular memory you still visit every now and then, for that guaranteed hit of pure, sugar-packed dopamine. It’s that story that starts with “There was this one time” and ends, reluctantly, with “but I guess …”'
That name you Google at two o’clock in the morning. That intoxicating connection that somehow never solidified into anything real; that particular memory you still visit every now and then, for that guaranteed hit of pure, sugar-packed dopamine. It’s that story that starts with “There was this one time” and ends, reluctantly, with but I guess . . ”
Sarina: “And God also knows the last thing I need is a time-sucking micro-project for an obsessive perfectionist. Especially one who will probably expect me to work for him as a favor because he deigned to sleep with me back at the dawn of time. No thank you.”
Sarina: “I watch till the lights of his car disappear around the corner, then exhale a slow breath. This is not good. This is not good at all. Despite my resolution to put a bullet in my crush, I’ve been using his project as a way to indulge my craving to be near him, and, instead of burning out, it’s just getting stronger. I have to find a way to distance myself. Only problem is, it’s the last thing in the world that I actually want to do.” Tenderness, protectiveness, desire, affection, and an aching longing to be able to act on those feelings. For him to return them.
I had to laugh thinking of my very young and innocent crush story. At a mere age of thirteen (looked sixteen), with my parents and little sis in Florida for family summer vacation. In walks, Saul Griffith, Jr. age sixteen, hot, buff, sexy blonde, tan California surfer; on vacation with his grandparents—staying at the same hotel. With innocent talks on the beach (within my parent’s view, of course) and a few stolen kisses. My strict Southern Baptist parents refused to allow me to accompany his family to dinner, upon their invitation. At thirteen, this was the end of the world. I hated my parents--- he was leaving the following morning.
The next morning, the bellman comes to our hotel door, and informs me I have a message waiting at the front desk. I am rushing out the door, hoping he is still here in Florida. Unfortunately, it was a letter from SG telling me they had to leave and he wanted to say good-bye and how much he enjoyed meeting me, etc. —I cried and cried over this stupid letter. Long forgotten, cannot recall exactly what was in the letter; however, remember re-reading this note for years before it was thrown away. Of course, back in the day, we did not have cell phones or emails, but I think he left his address. Of course, now divorced much older and much wiser - this book made me think about this one guy.
Sorry, Bethany, I am a web analyst and pro searching the web; Curious, no luck on Google except for a famous Australian inventor which does not fit the age range (unless it is his son). Oh, well the blonde tanned good-looking surfer, at age sixteen is probably now fat, bald, and a loser. The original image is a much better memory!
Every woman has one. That name you Google at two o'clock in the morning. That intoxicating connection that somehow never solidified into anything real; that particular memory you still visit every now and then, for that guaranteed hit of pure, sugar-packed dopamine. It's the story that starts with "There was this one time" and ends, reluctantly, with "but I guess..."
"And suddenly, I think of Noah and how much he hurt me, and the fact that, even after he promised me we'd work together to sort out the issue of kids, he still just assumed I'd do what he wants. And then through a convoluted and self-serving mathematical equation inside my head, Noah hurting me somehow equates to me being entitled to spend the night sleeping in a bed next to the only man I've ever wanted more than him. "
"I'm almost asleep when I realize I never called Eamon today, and I feel a flood of pure need. I have the impulse to punish myself by going to sleep without speaking to him; it's barely been a few hours since I ended things with Noah, and I feel guilty and mean putting in a call to one of the biggest reasons why. But I do it anyway."
"And god, I miss him. Miss his Bambi eyes and his cute little overbite and his beautiful smile, miss the familiar sound of his voice on the phone, his incessant teasing."