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Jack wanted to touch her hand again. She could tell. Instead he placed both hands, palms down, on the table, leaned forward. He took his lower lip between his teeth, tugged. The gesture made her horny as hell, but she tried not to let on. Instead she just sat and waited for judgment to fall like some sort of modern-day guillotine.

I’m trying to figure out how to put this in a way that you’re going to hear it, a way that’s going to be constructive rather than just piss you off. That’s one thing about you, Ruth: you have a temper. It’s hot, don’t get me wrong. It makes me feel into you, but it also gets me feeling put on the spot, so maybe that’s my issue. So much of this is my issue, so you’ve got to take it with a grain of salt.

Her cheeks were already flaming, her ears full-blown infernos. She never could take criticism. She knew this. Didn’t want to admit it, but knew it was true.

It seems like I can’t do anything without pissing you off. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s probably true of Gary and even Lennon too, I’m not sure.

Her family’s names in his mouth just didn’t seem right. She wanted to slap them out, watch them shatter on the concrete of the ground. Don’t talk about them she thought. You know nothing about them. Nothing.