The Airbnb was quaint and quirky and we blew in with the wind, strewing makeup bags and wine coolers across the place like our signature: four best friends, there to whoop it up.
A cake where the beauty is in the cake itself, exposed and unabashed, adorned by only the most carefully chosen elements that add to, rather than superseding, its flavour and appeal.
Angelina’s not worried about the letters anymore. She’s floating in the swimming pool leaking crimson ribbons that swirl like steeping tea.
Open the door, for Pete’s sake, because this is real life and it’s the pizza delivery you ordered, not your Prince Charming.
He had gone away years before. Away, as in not there, not where Miranda was, not around when she needed him—or someone, anyone—to be in her corner.
Squeaks and screeches and haunting calls of “who-hoo-oooo” spoke amongst themselves in the language of the night, exclusive food chain negotiations I had no desire to be party to.
He gets so sick of those people with their happy lives and their normal jobs on solid ground. He gets so angry when he’s seen by no one, moving state to state leaving no trace, Mr. Inconsequential mattering to nobody nowhere.
She feels it beating at its cage like desperate fists pounding inside a coffin that’s been closed too soon, buried too soon.
He’s clever. He’s handsome. He makes you feel at ease. That’s your Brandon, he’s a catch!
Those of you who were near and dear to Eleanor are well aware that she aged far beyond her years, and although young-ish on paper, in practice she was senior to us all.