You are", he says, "the absolute worst idea I've ever had.

History, huh?

That's the choice. I love him, with all that, because of all that. On purpose. I love him on purpose.

Because you’re it, okay? I’m never gonna love anybody in the world like I love you.

You are a delinquent and a plague. Please come.

On the map of you, my fingers could always find the green hills, Wales. Cool waters and a shore of white chalk. The ancient part of you carved out of stone in a prayerful circle, sacrosanct. Your spine's a ridge I'd die climbing. If I could spread it out on my desk, I'd find the corner of your mouth where it pinches with my fingers, and I'd smooth it away and you'd be marked with the names of saints like all the old maps. I get the nomenclature now- saints' names belong to miracles

It's impossible to know if he moves first or if Henry does, but they meet in the middle of the room, Henry's arms around Alex's neck, swallowing him up. If Henry's voice on the phone was a tether, his body is the gravity that makes it possible, his hand gripping the back of Alex's neck a magnetic force, a permanent compass north.

Awesome, fuckin' love doing things out of spite.

Prince Henry is a biscuit,' Nora says, 'let him sop you up.