GILLIAN FLYNN CRY BABY EPUB

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The Complete Gillian Flynn Gone Girl, Dark Places, Sharp Objects (EPUB) Free Ebook Download. Gillian Flynn is the real deal, sharp, acerbic, and storyteller. Likes, shares and comments are highly appreciated! Gone Girl II Dark Places II Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn 3 Novels in 1 File. GILLIAN FLYNN is the author is the #1 New York Times bestseller Gone Girl and the New York Times bestsellers cover image of Cry Baby--Scharfe Schnitte.


Gillian Flynn Cry Baby Epub

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This vision could be somewhat true; I can barely stand to admit it. I huddled over my beer. I needed to sit and drink a beer or three. My nerves were still singing from the morning. The air-conditioning kicked on, ruffling the tops of our heads.

We spent more time in The Bar than we needed to. It had become the childhood clubhouse we never had. Christmas in August.

After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: a Strawberry Shortcake doll, now scentless, pops up on a stool one day my gift to Go.

We were thinking of introducing a board game night, even though most of our customers were too old to be nostalgic for our Hungry Hungry Hippos, our Game of Life with its tiny plastic cars to be filled with tiny plastic pinhead spouses and tiny plastic pinhead babies. Deep Hasbro thought for the day. Go refilled my beer, refilled her beer.

Her left eyelid drooped slightly. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms — made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in Go remained unflappable. She was closer to twenty than thirty; she was fine.

For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. She was midlevel, nothing flashy, nothing blameful, but she lost her job — fast — with the financial meltdown.

I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end. The Bar seemed to cheer her up.

She handled the books, she poured the beers. She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me. We never talked about our old lives. We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. Eh, bad? You look bad. It was an easy question. I shrugged again — a confirmation this time, a whatcha gonna do? Go gave me her amused face, both elbows on the bar, hands cradling chin, hunkering down for an incisive dissection of my marriage.

Go, an expert panel of one. She smoked exactly one a day. Five years. That came fast. My wife loved games, mostly mind games, but also actual games of amusement, and for our anniversary she always set up an elaborate treasure hunt, with each clue leading to the hiding place of the next clue until I reached the end, and my present.

Our first anniversary, back in New York, I went two for seven. That was my best year. The opening parley: This place is a bit of a hole in the wall, But we had a great kiss there one Tuesday last fall. Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid? That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the answer might appear. She gave me another very long minute.

I finished the shrug. You should have done a clue with Confucius, I would have gotten that. The place was the point. The moment. I just thought it was special. I do not remember any of those conversations.

By the time we got to the end of the day, to exchanging our actual presents — the traditional paper presents for the first year of marriage — Amy was not speaking to me. Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor-legged skaters, kneeling parents and toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere.

Me trying to catch up, grab her arm. Happy anniversary, asshole. It was a reverse O. Help me out. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out. Then we both flushed pink in our cheeks in the same spot. It was the kind of raunchy, unsisterly joke that Go enjoyed tossing at me like a grenade. It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed. We were too tight: our inside jokes, our edge-of-the-party whispers.

We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife. No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. For two people who lived in the same city — the same city twice: first New York, now here — they barely knew each other. They flitted in and out of my life like well-timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in, and on the rare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they seemed somewhat bemused at the situation.

And: You just seem kind of not yourself with her. And finally: The important thing is she makes you really happy. Back when Amy made me really happy. And: You just have to be in the right mood for her. Neither did. Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyeroll and a smile.

Retired three years. Divorced two years. Moved into our development right after. This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar — that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic.

The reasons were bogus. Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin.

I just thought you should know … your door is wide open, and that cat of yours is outside. Driving into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses — homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seen them ejected, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless. When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: one middle-aged single mom of three, bearing a casserole; a young father of triplets with a six-pack of beer his wife left at home with the triplets ; an older Christian couple who lived a few houses down; and of course, Carl from across the street.

We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children.

In this whole big house? Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappeared in the night with her three kids. Her house has remained empty. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded, bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, floating in the dark like some sad aquarium fish.

He saw me see him and flickered back into the depths of the house. The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sun untouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out.

The complex was always disturbingly quiet. As I neared our home, conscious of the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was definitely on the steps. This was strange. The cat would waddle straight into the Mississippi River — deedle-de-dum — and float all the way to the Gulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark. Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel — Private Tryhard.

As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured. I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open.

Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different. This was wide-gaping-ominous open. Carl hovered across the way, waiting for my response, and like some awful piece of performance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband.

No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. End tables were on their sides, books slid across the floor like a card trick. Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead.

In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors. Through the kitchen, where a kettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river.

Amy was not there. Amy was gone.

Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act. Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan.

He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. He said. And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me.

Of course I was angry. I had been angry.

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Let me set the scene. She said. Gusty September winds. It was him. Together, together. It was that easy. Propitious, if you will. And I will. Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! No one cares. No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me.

Leave her in kneesocks and hair ribbons and let me grow up, unencumbered by my literary alter ego, my paperbound better half, the me I was supposed to be. Still, it was unsettling, the incredibly small order the publisher put in. Now ten thousand.

The book-launch party was, accordingly, unfabulous. How do you throw a party for a fictional character who started life as a precocious moppet of six and is now a thirty-year-old bride-to-be who still speaks like a child? The whole book made me want to punch Amy right in her stupid, spotless vagina.

I read it, of course. I gave the book my blessing — multiple times. That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.

So be it.

The book party was as schizophrenic as the book — at Bluenight, off Union Square, one of those shadowy salons with wingback chairs and art deco mirrors that are supposed to make you feel like a Bright Young Thing. Gin martinis wobbling on trays lofted by waiters with rictus smiles. Greedy journalists with knowing smirks and hollow legs, getting the free buzz before they go somewhere better.

My parents circulate the room hand in hand — their love story is always part of the Amazing Amy story: husband and wife in mutual creative labor for a quarter century. Soul mates. They really call themselves that, which makes sense, because I guess they are.

I can vouch for it, having studied them, little lonely only child, for many years. Making it look easy, the soul-mate thing. People say children from broken homes have it hard, but the children of charmed marriages have their own particular challenges.

How does it feel to see Amy finally married to Andy? Ha, ha. No Able Andy in my life right now. Thank God for the open bar. I wriggle back into the small crowd, where my parents are in full hosting mode, their faces flushed — Rand with his toothy prehistoric-monster-fish smile, Marybeth with her chickeny, cheerful head bobs, their hands intertwined, making each other laugh, enjoying each other, thrilled with each other — and I think, I am so fucking lonely. I go home and cry for a while. I am almost thirty-two.

I have many friends who are married — not many who are happily married, but many married friends. A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a girl with so many interests and enthusiasms, a cool job, a loving family.

No relationship is perfect, they say — they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation — yes, honey, okay, honey — is the same as concord. Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked.

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. But who also kind of likes my bullshit. Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only … and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realizes. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert.

He gets me.

She gets me. So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man — the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard.

01 The Bourne Identity Robert Ludlum epub

And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine. You both find the exact same things worth remembering.

You have the same rhythm. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life.

Amy always phoned right back. Or the door open. Or anything waiting to be ironed.

The Raptors Won. Where Does Drake Go From Here?

Since our move back to Missouri, the loss of her job, her life had revolved devolved? The dress would have been ironed. And there was the living room, signs pointing to a struggle. I wanted the next part to start.

It was the best time of day, the July sky cloudless, the slowly setting sun a spotlight on the east, turning everything golden and lush, a Flemish painting. The police rolled up. It felt casual, me sitting on the steps, an evening bird singing in the tree, these two cops getting out of their car at a leisurely pace, as if they were dropping by a neighborhood picnic.

Kid cops, mid-twenties, confident and uninspired, accustomed to soothing worried parents of curfew-busting teens. Carthage had become a bit a very tiny bit less Caucasian while I was away, but it was still so severely segregated that the only people of color I saw in my daily routine tended to be occupational roamers: delivery men, medics, postal workers.

I accused her of craving ethnic window dressing, minorities as backdrops. It did not go well. I could see his eyes follow a darting bird out over the river. Then he snapped his gaze back toward me, his curled lips telling me he saw what everyone else did. I smile a lot to make up for my face, but this only sometimes works.

I needed a drink. I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this. I am embarrassed at how happy I am, like some Technicolor comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone with my hair in a ponytail, the bubble above my head saying: I met a boy! But I did. This is a technical, empirical truth. I met a boy, a great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy. But still. Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a writer.

But really, I do think my quizzes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis. At a party you find yourself surrounded by genuine talented writers, employed at high-profile, respected newspapers and magazines. Yeah, so suck it, snobdouche! I worry for a second that she wants to set us up: I am not interested in being set up.

I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral lovejackal. But no, I realize, as Carmen gushes on about her friend: She likes him. We climb three flights of warped stairs and walk into a whoosh of body heat and writerness: many black-framed glasses and mops of hair; faux western shirts and heathery turtlenecks; black wool pea-coats flopped all across the couch, puddling to the floor; a German poster for The Getaway Ihre Chance war gleich Null!

I nudge in, aiming my plastic cup in the center like a busker, get a clatter of ice cubes and a splash of vodka from a sweet-faced guy wearing a Space Invaders T-shirt. It is a January party, definitely, everyone still glutted and sugar-pissed from the holidays, lazy and irritated simultaneously. A party where people drink too much and pick cleverly worded fights, blowing cigarette smoke out an open window even after the host asks them to go outside.

I have lost Carmen to her host-beau — they are having an intense discussion in a corner of the kitchen, the two of them hunching their shoulders, their faces toward each other, the shape of a heart. I think about eating to give myself something to do besides standing in the center of the room, smiling like the new kid in the lunchroom. But almost everything is gone. Some potato-chip shards sit in the bottom of a giant Tupperware bowl.

A supermarket deli tray full of hoary carrots and gnarled celery and a semeny dip sits untouched on a coffee table, cigarettes littered throughout like bonus vegetable sticks.

I am doing my thing, my impulse thing: What if I leap from the theater balcony right now? What if I tongue the homeless man across from me on the subway? What if I sit down on the floor of this party by myself and eat everything on that deli tray, including the cigarettes? He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly. I would like to be fucked properly! The Fitzgerald fellows tend to be ineffectively porny in bed, a lot of noise and acrobatics to very little end.

The finance guys turn rageful and flaccid. Pause while I count how many … eleven. Not bad. James has up to three other food items in his refrigerator.

I could make you an olive with mustard. Just one olive, though. It is a line that is only a little funny, but it already has the feel of an inside joke, one that will get funnier with nostalgic repetition. Then I catch myself. His name is Nick. I love it. It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. I catch three fourths of his movie references. Two thirds, maybe. Note to self: Rent The Sure Thing. He refills my drink without me having to ask, somehow ferreting out one last cup of the good stuff.

It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me. He talks to me in his river-wavy Missouri accent; he was born and raised outside of Hannibal, the boyhood home of Mark Twain, the inspiration for Tom Sawyer.

He tells me he worked on a steamboat when he was a teenager, dinner and jazz for the tourists. And when I laugh bratty, bratty New York girl who has never ventured to those big unwieldy middle states, those States Where Many Other People Live , he informs me that Missoura is a magical place, the most beautiful in the world, no state more glorious. His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long. I can see what he looked like as a boy. It is one a.

As we turn the corner, the local bakery is getting its powdered sugar delivered, funneled into the cellar by the barrelful as if it were cement, and we can see nothing but the shadows of the deliverymen in the white, sweet cloud. His eyelashes are trimmed with powder, and before he leans in, he brushes the sugar from my lips so he can taste me. There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: an older woman named Sue who had come in every Thursday with her husband until he died three months back.

Now she came alone every Thursday, never much for conversation, just sitting with a beer and a crossword, preserving a ritual. My sister was at work behind the bar, her hair pulled back in nerdy-girl barrettes, her arms pink as she dipped the beer glasses in and out of hot suds. Go is slender and strange-faced, which is not to say unattractive.

Her features just take a moment to make sense: the broad jaw; the pinched, pretty nose; the dark globe eyes. My twin, Go. We even have a dash of twin telepathy. Go is truly the one person in the entire world I am totally myself with. I tell her as much as I can. We spent nine months back to back, covering each other.

It became a lifelong habit.

The Light Between Oceans M.L. Stedman

It never mattered to me that she was a girl, strange for a deeply self-conscious kid. What can I say? She was always just cool.

I think they do. She arched an eyebrow at me. When she caught me staring at the smudged rim, she brought the glass up to her mouth and licked the smudge away, leaving a smear of saliva. She set the mug squarely in front of me. For my dad, a particularly unwanted stranger. She believes she was left to fend for herself throughout childhood, a pitiful creature of random hand-me-downs and forgotten permission slips, tightened budgets and general regret.

This vision could be somewhat true; I can barely stand to admit it. I huddled over my beer. I needed to sit and drink a beer or three. My nerves were still singing from the morning. The air-conditioning kicked on, ruffling the tops of our heads. We spent more time in The Bar than we needed to. It had become the childhood clubhouse we never had. Christmas in August. After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: a Strawberry Shortcake doll, now scentless, pops up on a stool one day my gift to Go.

We were thinking of introducing a board game night, even though most of our customers were too old to be nostalgic for our Hungry Hungry Hippos, our Game of Life with its tiny plastic cars to be filled with tiny plastic pinhead spouses and tiny plastic pinhead babies.

Deep Hasbro thought for the day. Go refilled my beer, refilled her beer. Her left eyelid drooped slightly. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms — made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in Go remained unflappable. She was closer to twenty than thirty; she was fine. For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. She was midlevel, nothing flashy, nothing blameful, but she lost her job — fast — with the financial meltdown.

I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end.

The Bar seemed to cheer her up. She handled the books, she poured the beers. She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me. We never talked about our old lives. We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. Eh, bad? You look bad. It was an easy question. I shrugged again — a confirmation this time, a whatcha gonna do? Go gave me her amused face, both elbows on the bar, hands cradling chin, hunkering down for an incisive dissection of my marriage.

Go, an expert panel of one. She smoked exactly one a day. Five years. That came fast. My wife loved games, mostly mind games, but also actual games of amusement, and for our anniversary she always set up an elaborate treasure hunt, with each clue leading to the hiding place of the next clue until I reached the end, and my present.

Our first anniversary, back in New York, I went two for seven. That was my best year. The opening parley: This place is a bit of a hole in the wall, But we had a great kiss there one Tuesday last fall.

Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid? That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the answer might appear. She gave me another very long minute. I finished the shrug.

You should have done a clue with Confucius, I would have gotten that.

The Grownup

The place was the point. The moment. I just thought it was special. I do not remember any of those conversations. By the time we got to the end of the day, to exchanging our actual presents — the traditional paper presents for the first year of marriage — Amy was not speaking to me. Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor-legged skaters, kneeling parents and toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere.

Me trying to catch up, grab her arm. Happy anniversary, asshole. It was a reverse O. Help me out. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out.

Then we both flushed pink in our cheeks in the same spot. It was the kind of raunchy, unsisterly joke that Go enjoyed tossing at me like a grenade. It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed.

We were too tight: our inside jokes, our edge-of-the-party whispers. We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife. No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. For two people who lived in the same city — the same city twice: first New York, now here — they barely knew each other. They flitted in and out of my life like well-timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in, and on the rare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they seemed somewhat bemused at the situation.

And: You just seem kind of not yourself with her. And finally: The important thing is she makes you really happy. Back when Amy made me really happy. And: You just have to be in the right mood for her.

Neither did. Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyeroll and a smile. Retired three years. Divorced two years. Moved into our development right after. This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar — that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic.

The reasons were bogus. Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin. I just thought you should know … your door is wide open, and that cat of yours is outside.

Driving into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses — homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seen them ejected, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless. When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: one middle-aged single mom of three, bearing a casserole; a young father of triplets with a six-pack of beer his wife left at home with the triplets ; an older Christian couple who lived a few houses down; and of course, Carl from across the street.

We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children. In this whole big house? Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappeared in the night with her three kids.

Her house has remained empty. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded, bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, floating in the dark like some sad aquarium fish. He saw me see him and flickered back into the depths of the house. The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sun untouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out. The complex was always disturbingly quiet. As I neared our home, conscious of the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was definitely on the steps.

This was strange. The cat would waddle straight into the Mississippi River — deedle-de-dum — and float all the way to the Gulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark. Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel — Private Tryhard. As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured.

I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open. Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different. This was wide-gaping-ominous open. Carl hovered across the way, waiting for my response, and like some awful piece of performance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband.

No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. End tables were on their sides, books slid across the floor like a card trick. Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors. Through the kitchen, where a kettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door.

I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river. Amy was not there. Amy was gone. Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act. Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan. He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8.

He said. And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me. Of course I was angry. I had been angry. Let me set the scene.I felt an immediate, intense need to get inside. Three weeks after I got cut loose, Amy lost her job, such as it was.

Today was not a day for second-guessing or regret, it was a day for doing. I think they do. His name is Nick. I read it, of course. Who are you? I turned away. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms — made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid?

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