Sally Thorne

Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person.

Every interaction spikes your blood with a dangerous kind of adrenali

imprisoned at my desk for another few hours. I wish I was in solitary confinement, but unfortunately I have a cellmate. Each tick of his watch feels like another tally ma

friendly and efficient people at HarperCollins, especially my editor, Amanda Bergeron, for making me feel like one of the family.

Speaking of family, I want to send love to my parents, Sue and David, my brother, Peter, and my husband, Roland. Rol, thank you for believing in me. Even though my pug, Delia, cannot read, she has bee

Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person. The heart in your chest beats heavy and bright, nearly visible through your flesh and clothes. Your appetite and sleep are shredded. Every interaction spikes your blood with a dangerous kind of adrenaline, and you’re on the brink of fight or flight. Your body is barely under your control. You’re consumed, and it scares you.

Both love and hate are mirror versions of the same game—and you have to win. Why? Your heart and your ego. Trust me, I should know.

I’M WILTED WITH tiredness and it’s only Wednesday.