“Where I'm from," Tom tilted his head to the side, "they call your kind a hipster or a lumbersexual, with the beard and flannel and such."Without missing beat, Jethro responded, "Ah. See, where I'm from, they call my kind a man.”

“Where I'm from," Tom tilted his head to the side, "they call your kind a hipster or a lumbersexual, with the beard and flannel and such."Without missing beat, Jethro responded, "Ah. See, where I'm from, they call my kind a man.”

“Elizabeth called it my mane of hair; I called it my bane of hair. However, it was far worse looking when it was short, sticking straight up or out at awkward angles; at least when it was long it almost obeyed gravity.”

“I didn’t like how my body seemed to be intent on sabotaging my brain, especially since my brain was so good at sabotaging itself.”

“Why do you look like that, Duane?""Like what, Cletus?""Like your heart is diseased.”

“Dance with me."Blinking, first at his offered palm and then at his features, I asked, "Why?"Not immediately replying, he reached for me, pulled me to my feet, and slid an arm around my waist. I allowed him to hold my body against his, fit our hands together, and sway to the lovely music. Begrudgingly, I admitted to myself he had great rhythm. Someone had taught him to dance.Jehtro dipped his mouth to my ear, his beard tickling my neck as he finally whispered an answer to my question, "Because you want me to hold you, but you don't know how to ask.”

“And you are more than the mistakes of your youth. You are more than the label you’ve been assigned by people who might love you, but don’t really know who you are anymore.”

“Where I'm from," Tom tilted his head to the side, "they call your kind a hipster or a lumbersexual, with the beard and flannel and such."Without missing beat, Jethro responded, "Ah. See, where I'm from, they call my kind a man.”

“She was a damn good kisser, maybe the best I'd ever had the immense pleasure of kissing. It helped that her lips were like pillows and she tasted sweet. Not like strawberries or peaches. Sunshine and sweet—her own brand of it. Plus there was desperation in the kiss, an understated but raw passion I couldn't recall ever experiencing before.Or maybe that had been me. Maybe I'd been the passionate, desperate one. No matter. Either way, she'd stolen my breath, robbed me of thought and sense. She was a master thief, and I loved her for it.”

“Does he give you zings in your things?”

“When you cried, I learned what helplessness tastes like. Because all I could do was swallow.”

“She disliked me. But she worshipped my brother. He didn't see her, not really. Not like I did.”