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How fast were you? Wes asked me. I said, Not that fast. You mean you couldn't... fly? he said, smiling at me.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Smiling
Fast
Couldn
Asked
Mean

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What, I said, is that a crime here or something? Like only buying one thing at the Gas/Gro?
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Leaving was easy. It was everything else that was so damned hard.
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But the original was there as well—more jaded and rudimentary, functional rather than romantic. It fit not just the yellow house but another door, deep within my own heart. One that had been locked so tight for so long that I was afraid to even try it for fear of what might be on the other side
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A thump thump thump noise that was so unfamiliar, and yet I couldn't quite place it. But I knew it. It was - Mmm-hmmm, Monica murmured, just as Wes came view into the path. He was running, his pace quick and steady. He was in shorts, his shirt off, staring ahead as he passed. His back was tan and gleaming with sweat.
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When I pictured myself, it was always like just an outline in a colouring book, with the inside not yet completed.
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It was as familiar to me as a song I'd been hearing my whole life, covered by various people but the basic tune the same.
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It passed, though. That was the bad thing. It always passed.
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