Quote

Cheshvan starts tonight, Rixon said, What are you doing arsing around in a graveyard? Thinking. Thinking? A process by which I use my brain to make a rational decision.

Becca Fitzpatrick

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Becca Fitzpatrick
Age: 45
Born: 1979
Born: February 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Centerville
Utah
Use
Hush
Around
Graveyard
Make
Tonight
Thinking
Starts
Rational
Decision
Brain
Process

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Try it on. It's probably a little snug, I said, suddenly feeling conspicuous. Marcie tends to buy down when it comes to sizing. He merely smiled. It has a slit up the thigh. His smile deepened.
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actions speak louder than words
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Patch smiled. “You come by your red hair naturally?” I stared at him. “I don’t have red hair.” “I hate to break it to you, but it’s red. I could light it on fire and it wouldn’t turn any redder.
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You’re impinging on my private space,” I said, inching backward. Patch gave a barely-there smile. Impinging? This isn’t the SAT, Nora.
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They say that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. They never tell you that when you watch someone you once loved dying, hovering between this life and the next, it's twice as painful, because you're reliving two lives that traveled one road together.
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This was it. Together. Forever. As we left it all behind, the sun warmed my back, lighting the way before us. I knew of no better omen.
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I don't have 'five' you can borrow. My piggy bank is officially anorexic.
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Let me show you,” he said in my ear. “Like this. Feel that? Relax. Now pivot your hips—it’s all in the hips.
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Wouldn't have pegged you for a dancer, he spoke to my mind Funny, I would have pegged you for a stalker, I shot back.
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...I need a boyfriend. And to get a boyfriend, you have to look good. Doesn’t hurt to smell good too.
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I’m not stealing it. We’re stranded. This is called borrowing.” “This is called you’re crazy.
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The Patch I knew didn't run from anyone.
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How warm I feel. How icredibly alive and vibrant and heedless every last inch of me feels next to you.
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There's nothing special about losing your virginity over a toilet.
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Well, well,” he said. “Five days a week isn’t enough of me? Had to give me an evening, too?
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I'm a private contractor now. I choose my clients, not the other way around.
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Violence doesn't equal strength.
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You're crazy. You're impossible.' 'I'm crazy?' He tipped my chin up and planted a quick, rough kiss on my mouth. 'And I must be crazy for putting up with it.
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Hang on, did you just call me Angel?” I asked. “If I did?” “I don’t like it.” He grinned. “It stays. Angel.” He leaned across the table, raised his hand to my face, and brushed his thumb along one corner of my mouth. I pulled away, too late.
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My life sucks when I’m only half-aware of it. If I quit drinking and saw what it’s really like, I’d probably jump off a bridge.
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