The rule of life was that the boys got to decide which girls were pretty; it didn’t really matter how ugly they were themselves.
Each memory, good and bad, was another invisible thread that bound them together, even when they were foolishly thinking they could lead separate lives. It was as simple and complicated as that.
The medications, the hormones, and the relentless frustration of our lives make us b**chy, and you’re not allowed to be b**chy in public or people won’t like you.
Early love is exciting and exhilarating. It’s light and bubbly. Anyone can love like that. But love after three children, after a separation and a near-divorce, after you’ve hurt each other and forgiven each other, bored each other and surprised each other, after you’ve seen the worst and the best—well, that sort of a love is ineffable. It deserves its own word.