I Pretty Much Only Wear Lilly Pulitzer

Tragedy Is A Hell Of A Teacher. It's Much Too Strict, But It's A Hell Of A Teacher.

If I Had, Say, A Tall, Amateur Male Lead Living On The Campus Of A Rural College (six Years), The Next Book Might Feature A Short, Cop Who Lives In The Heart Of Manhattan (missing You).

No, I Don’t Live In Heartache. I Don’t Cry Myself To Sleep Or Any Of That. I Am, I Tell Myself, Over It. But I Do Feel A Void, Icky As That Sounds. And—like It Or Not—i Still Think About Her Every Single Day.

Myron Reached For The Phone And Dialed Win's Number. After The Eighth Ring He Began To Hang Up When A Weak, Distant Voice Coughed. "hello?" Win?" Yeah." You Okay?" Hello?" Win?" Yeah." What Took You So Long To Answer The Phone?" Hello?" Win?" Who Is This?" Myron." Myron Bolitar?" How Many Other Myrons Do You Know?" Myron Bolitar?" No, Myron Rockefeller." Something's Wrong," Win Said. What?" Terribly Wrong." What Are You Talking About?" Some Asshole Is Calling Me At Seven In The Morning Pretending To Be My Best Friend." Sorry, I Forgot The Time.

Sometimes The Loudest Cries For Help Are Silent.