So here were the facts: I felt possessive of her. Not in a romantic sort of way, but in a "hit her over the head, drag her off by the hair, and fuck her" way.
She was like a fire-cracker standing too close to a match: all potential energy, still wrapped up so neatly. He wanted to watch her explode.
To her, not packing our lunches every day or joining the PTA is a feminist rallying cry.
My brain is such a traitorous beast.
Figure out how to balance Oliver with a career you’ve wanted your whole life,” he tells me. “Because you’ll end up with neither if you think you have to choose.
Do people call you Ollie?” Lola asked.
For the first time in my life I was admitting defeat.
He could only do rowdy because he felt what I felt: that whip-crack unleashing that comes when you meet the person who frees you.
