Ashley Herring Blake

“It’s a storm in a teacup,” Delilah said.

Ruby furrowed her brow. “Huh?”

Delilah laughed. “It’s an old phrase. It means . . . making a big deal out of something small. I got it to remind myself to have some perspective. That, most times, things aren’t as devastating as they might feel at first.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re a nice person. Nice people ask questions sometimes just because they think they should, not because they really give a shit.”

how much the art you did as a kid—whether it be drawings or photographs or songs—felt like spilling the contents of your heart out into the world. Hell, it still felt like that as a grown-up

My chest hurt too, like it always does when I do something I know isn’t right, like I can’t breathe the right way or something.

what the hell did I really want if it wasn’t him?

what the hell did I really want if it wasn’t him?

“Like you’d follow her to the moon.”

“Everything okay with you two?” she asked.

Iris waved a hand. “Same argument, different day.”

A different wish. One where family meant more than awkward encounters and avoided text messages. One where friends meant more than an acquaintance or a colleague or a one-night stand. One where home meant more than a fifth-floor walk-up and IKEA furniture.

Not caring was fucking exhausting.