People need space; families need air; love needs light. Like Mrs. Anastagio always said, ―You need enough rooms to love someone properly.
For the first time in his life he understood why the Bible called sex "knowing". Everything was different. Now he Dante. He'd known Dante. And wonder of wonders, Dante had known him right back.
[...]Are both of you...?" "Manscaped?" Dante smiled. "I'm fucking Italian; I been mowing my lawn since I was thirteen.
It was the list of activities thing. Like the menu with price, only I'm not the restaurant; I'm the meal.
I want you to move in with me, man." "Nah. I appreciate it, but I need to get a place of my own. I'm a grownup.
If your heart is broken, do you have a phantom heart?
Bravery usually looked stupid from the outside.
Pop culture. Nobody does bullshit better than us. Right? China took over manufacturing. And the Middle East has us on fossil fuels. That's just geography and politics. We're a nation of whacko immigrants. Scavengers and con men. We crossed the ocean ...
And Lord knows there are more than enough rooms to love someone properly, even if they don't all have floors or ceilings.
Romance is the literature of hope.
Griff held his breath, waiting for it, knowing the axe would fall and he‘d start dying as soon as he walked out the fucking door, and Dante would just grin and joke and try to forget what they had done together in this room.
