Mariana Zapata

You’re not ever going to be anyone else’s partner. Not while I’m alive, Meatball. I will drag your stubborn, beautiful ass kicking and screaming back to me because nobody else will ever be good enough for you

I reminded myself that life was a gift—sometimes one you wanted to return, and other times one you’d want to keep forever, but it was still a gift. The grass might look greener on the other side, but at least you still had grass. There were places in the world that didn’t have any to begin with.

You get one step ahead and then have to take five back. That was life sometimes, wasn’t it? For everyone, not just me.

And when fate pushed things into your life, you should listen. I had my ears ready. My future wide open. I had no clue what I wanted to do anymore, but this was something. This was a step. And the only way you could move was by taking that first step, and sometimes it didn’t matter which direction you took it as long as you did.

Maybe he didn’t know how to fight, but he could get an E for effort.

Men. Fucking men.

This tall, muscular, tanned-skin man with tattoos to his elbows and a body that made me want to pray he did the lawn with his shirt off was my neighbor. Not the other guy.

And if I was going to be totally honest with myself, noon would have been too early for this. Six in the evening would have been too early for this.

My real question was: why wouldn’t he have a pencil to begin with? I’d bought him a value pack and mechanical pencils.

He’d knock over a toy: “Shit.” He’d trip: “Shit.” Rodrigo and I had thought it was hilarious. Everyone else? Not so much.