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And then there was the dimple, that fucking adorable dimple in her right cheek. It popped when she smiled; it popped when she talked; it popped when she breathed. There was a matching one on the left, too, but it was less prominent. As if once God had so masterfully conceived the right one, he was like, I’m exhausted; this’ll do.
“You burst into my solitude, demanding to be seen. You were overwhelming. Just wild and weird and brilliant, and I never had a choice. I liked everything about you. Even the scary parts. I wanted to drown in your fucking bathwater.”
“I’m writing to you.”
“I wrote my books like you were the only one who’d ever read them,” he continued carefully. “My books did what I couldn’t.”
He half grinned. “You want me to humiliate myself for you?” “No, I want you to want to humiliate yourself for me.”
“I love you,” said Shane. “Dramatically, violently, and forever.”
They were observers, not joiners.
“Adulthood is a lie, Audre. We’re all just tall toddlers.”