“You know, Justin, it’s not cooking that makes you the wife, and it’s not getting fucked in the ass that makes you the wife. It’s not these fucking rings that make you the wife.” I brushed the open box off the desk, onto the floor. “It’s being understanding, that’s what makes you the wife.”

why is this brilliant? Because it’s so very very in character. Brian finds the one point that hurts the most and then exploits it. cruelty for sport. And he goes for it. mentioning Justin’s parents, “the wife” all of it. Brian, tearing someone to shreds with surgical precision. Lashing out like a wounded animal. That’s just… god, it’s astounding that you did that in a couple of sentences.

Justin looked me right in the eye. “Do whatever you need to do, Brian. But get the fuck out of here.”

not how it ended when Jack and Joan did that huh? Probably not what Brian was expecting but seriously, probably what he needed to hear, and maybe even what he wanted to hear… then he’s proven right, there is no such thing as happiness, and thus, Brian wins either way. Or loses… hurts, xie, make it stop, please.

The lights flickered again, and I went into the living room.

THE LIGHTS FLICKERED? Going for blood, bitch?

I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. The sleet had turned to hail and I could hear it pebbling on the glass roof of the hot tub room, and against the windows when the wind blew. The lights stayed on, though.

okay, the lights stayed on, so it’s all going to be okay, right?

I took a deep breath. “Do you think it’s all romantic bullshit, Brian? The Christmas tree lights, and the wedding rings, and the fireplace?”

He shrugged but didn’t answer me.

“Because it’s all your romantic bullshit, Brian. You bought this house, you bought this fireplace, you bought the fucking firewood. You bought the Christmas tree, and the lights, and you bought these fucking rings. I never asked you for any of this. Never.”

you know, I can’t help but notice that the prodigy, genius lad, has a point.