You may not say much, Carlos Soto.” She reached forward to place her hand over his heart, and he wondered if she could feel that it beat only for her. “But when you do say something, it tends to be the right thing.

In war, there are no unwounded.

I get now that your boy parts like my girl parts...

That’s Lord Asshat of Bigdicksburg to you, my friend.

Tell me, what size must a guy’s balls be in order to walk up to his former comandin’ officer and declare his intent to plant his flag, so to speak, in the man’s baby sister? Texas-sizes, maybe? Alaska-sized?

If you really loved her, you’d kiss her tears and bumps and bruises the same way you kiss her lips. You’d stand by her side when she’s at her absolute worsts and doesn’t think she deserves it. Real love is hard and messy and painful. Real love is sticking around when the ugly parts make you want to run away.

She never knew it about herself, but she liked it when he went all bossy and demanding. She.

Because I’ve lost a few people I’ve loved during my life,” she continued, “and this is what I know. In the end, the love we withhold, not the love we give, is what we wind up regretting.

Sweet lovin’ Lord. This place was like a Cabela’s catalog on crack.

But that’s what falling in love was, right? A socially acceptable form of insanity?