Hook, Line, and Sinker

“I had it bad for you. If the convention didn’t make it obvious, I thought for sure the Fleetwood Mac album would do it.” His voice stumbled. “I’ve got it so bad for you, Hannah. Really”—he blew out a breath—“really bad. I tried to keep you out of here.” He knocked his free fist against his chest. “But you won’t go. You’re never going to go. You just won’t.”

“Hannah. I can’t answer what I don’t know,” he said through stiff lips. “What do you want me to say? Do I want to fuck you? Yes. Oh my God, I”—his eyes closed briefly, those fisherman’s hands flexing on the steering wheel—“I want you underneath me so bad that I can’t lie in bed without already feeling you there. I’ve never even had you, and your body haunts mine.”

“Hey, scumbag! How about you shut your mouth?” She jabbed a finger at the leader, and his cigarette froze on the way to his mouth. “Mamas don’t bother warning girls about jerks like yourself, because no one would come within ten feet of you. Smelly old ball sac!”

A woman who walked into a room and got the job she applied for, because she dressed for it. Because she exuded confidence and expected her due.

You
can’t live life worrying about what people will think. You’ll wake up one day, look at a calendar, and count the days you could have spent being happy.

I kiss the ground she walks on.

I love her.

“You’re so damn beautiful, Hannah.”

I love him. I love him.

“You knew it had to be huge.”

“You’re . . . my Hannah, you know?”