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272 pages, Hardcover
First published October 13, 2015
I looked up at Ezra Lyney, who was, according to Rachel Woodson's crap article, one of the best high school running backs in the country. He was also best friend to Foster. He left the charts in generosity and loyalty and honor. At least in my book.
When I was a freshman, I had braces and more pimples than I could count. I didn't wear makeup. I didn't own short-shorts. I had never tasted alcohol, and I certainly didn't know how or why you would ever want to blow anything.
I felt like I had never done anything. I had never suffered. I had never triumphed. I was a middle-class kid from the burbs who had managed to be rather unspectacular for the last seventeen years.
My mom poured me a glass of milk, squeezed in a healthy dose of chocolate syrup, and told me that this just wasn’t the universe where Cas and I were right for each other, simple as that. Maybe in another time or place, maybe if he were different or if I were different.
“But you don’t want to make yourself different for a boy,” she said. “You don’t want to make yourself different for anyone.”
My reply was something halfway between a sob and “You just don’t get it.” But my mother persisted.
“Someday someone will like you for you, just the way you are. And as much as you like Cas, this other person will be so much better for you.”
“Were you friends?”
A pause. “Yeah.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Do you want to cry?” Foster said.
“Foster.” Scolding Foster came natural in almost any situation.
“I'm just saying, a lot of guys don't think it's, like, socially acceptable to cry. But you could cry if you wanted. Because that's stupid.”
“I don't know how to talk like they do,” Ezra continued after a moment. “But . . . I feel about you the way they feel in those books. The way those guys feel about those girls they don't always deserve.”
“Devon,” she said, and somehow it felt like the voice speaking was a little more Isobel and a little less Mrs. Wentworth. “Do you want to go to college?”
No one had ever asked me that. College was the natural order of things. According to my parents, between birth and death, there had to be college."
“I don't know what else I would do,” I said.
“Join the army,” was her simple reply.
I made a face. “I hate being yelled at.”
“The Peace Corps, then.”
A choking noise erupted from my throat, something like a cast being strangled. “I hate being selfless.”
“Alright.” The twitching around Mrs. Wentworth's lips started up again. “Get a job.”
“Just start working? Just like that.”
“Lots of people do it. Some very successful people never went to college.”
“Yeah. Look at Hollywood.”
“There's one. Go to Hollywood. Become a star.”
“But I can't act. I've never even talked in a play.”
“So join drama club.”
“Oh yeah, chorus member number twelve will be my ticket to stardom.”
“Why not?”
“First, you have to like doing that kind of stuff, which I don't, and second, you have to be good at it, which I'm not.”
“So what are you good at?”
“I don't know. Nothing, really.”
When you love something, you can't be happy all the time, can you? Like, that's why you love it. It makes you feel all kinds of things, not just happy. It can hurt, it can make you fucking mad, but... it makes you feel something, you know?

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"When you love something, you can’t be happy all the time, can you? Like, that’s why you love it. It makes you feel all kinds of things, not just happy. It can hurt, it can make you fucking mad, but…it makes you feel something, you know?”
We reached my car, which was a shameful distance from the curb and sticking into the street at a really awkward angle. I couldn’t parallel park to save my life.
"It’s weird. Sometimes it feels like we’re still the ones in the pictures, and everything that happened after happened to other people. And then sometimes we’re the other people, and the strangers are in the frames.”
"I really think you should, you know, give that, uh…soup…a chance.”
“Soup?”
“You know. That soup we were talking about. I think you should give it a shot. It’s a really…good recipe. Highly dependable. And obviously delicious." Her eyes widened. “Not that I would know. Not that I’ve tasted the soup.”
“This is not a flawless metaphor.”
Ezra snorted and then grimaced, and it was quiet for a moment. “So, uh, did you write the ‘inaccessibly handsome’ part?”
“No, I definitely didn’t.” I realized how that sounded and then felt compelled to go on. My shoes suddenly became incredibly interesting. “But, I mean…it’s true.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
He smiled a little as he looked back down at the paper. “What about the ‘inaccessible’ part? Kinda makes me sound like a badly zoned restroom.”
“It’s true, though. A few details here and there aren’t bad. You’re not exactly forthcoming.”
“I told you. I’m not great at talking.”
“You’re talking now.”
He shrugged. “You’re easy to talk to.”
Something fluttered around in my stomach at that. A lone butterfly, agitating me for some reason.
"Are you drunk?” a voice said.
So it was only temporary peace.
I whipped around and ripped the shower curtain back. There sat Foster, fully clothed, in the empty bathtub.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
There was a rubber duck balanced delicately on his head. It didn’t move as he spoke. “Just sitting.”
This was one of those moments. Those Foster moments. Early-morning smoothies and the like. I squeezed my eyes shut hard.
Close your eyes, real tight, and then count to three hundred. That’s all you have to do. You just count to three hundred, and when you open your eyes, five minutes will have passed. And even if it hurts or things are shitty or you don’t know what to do, you just made it through five whole minutes. And when it feels like you can’t go on, you just close your eyes and do it again. That’s all you need. Just five minutes at a time."
...I feel about you the way they feel in those books. The way those guys feel about those girls that they don't always deserve."
Yeah, but that's Ezra. When he was born, he probably sprinted out of his mother and charged the delivery nurse."
"My pal Jordan," I murmured. "Champion of my heart."
"No, you're the champion of my heart."
"Can't we be each other's champions?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "I'd like that."

