“But enough about my first-world problems, why was Sawyer dancing like an extra from High School Musical?”
I unleash my sleep apnea snorting sound. “He was trying to make things less weird between us.”
“Seriously?”
I nod.

The slapping waves punctuate the moment, then she leans in to kiss my cheek.

I move so she hits my lips.
I kiss her hard, not caring who’s here. Buy a ticket. Take a picture. Videotape the moment. As far as I’m concerned, the people around us don’t exist.

“I’m not sure how I’ll survive you.”

“My turn,” he calls.

All heads turn our way, and I gulp. Maybe I’m more Cowardly Lion than Joan of Arc. I doubt anyone will notice if I slip under the table and huddle in the fetal position. My floral skirt will for sure camouflage me with the floor tile. Or I could pull the fire alarm. Sensing my imminent freak-out, Sam tightens his grip on my leg.

Then he says, “Never have I ever…” OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod. He won’t really do it, will he? “Wet myself on an airplane, tossed out my underpants, then flashed a very flustered guy.”

He sure did. My heart shoots to warp speed, my neck so tense it might snap, and everyone looks at Sam like he’s lost his freaking mind.

“Own it, Canada,” he whispers.

So I do. I lift my shot, drain the vodka, and slam it down, fire burning the length of my throat. While I sputter and cough, I keep my attention focused on the single drip cascading down my empty glass. Bruno’s hyena laugh nearly shatters the thing. Then Leigh hollers, Callum chuckles, and Brianne giggles, the noise loud enough to wake the hostel.

“Priceless!” Bruno falls over on the bench in hysterics.

“That you are,” Sam says into my ear, his nose, then lips, finding my neck.

I shiver from the contact and glance at our friends. I’m no stranger to laughs at my expense, but the warm smiles and genuine humor on their faces isn’t hurtful. Or mocking. As Bruno’s cackle escalates, I find myself laughing with them. I snort in the process and Leigh points at me, falling face first onto the table. Sam loses it, too, slapping his knee and holding his chest.

So this is chasing your crazy. And catching it.

“So I like her. Do I really have to fucking sit here and analyze it with you? We gonna paint each other’s nails next? We could both get weaves and then braid each other’s hair. Maybe watch some My Little Pony. We’d make decent Bronies.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You done yet?”
“Not really. We could watch Titanic. Lament about how there was totally room for Jack on that door with Rose. He didn’t have to die, damn you, James Cameron!”

[spoiler][/spoiler]
Dear Ida, It’s been a while since I’ve written to you. You might remember me as Stuck-Up Suit, Celibate in Manhattan, Fucked in Manhattan and Fifty Shades of Morgan. Same guy. Well, tonight, I’m happy to say I’ve earned a new name: Poopface in Manhattan. That’s right. I just looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and noticed that I literally have shit on my forehead. Don’t ask me how it got there. You know what the funny thing is? I’ve never been happier in my life. That’s right. This guy with shit on his face is deliriously happy! That realization prompted this message. You remember that smart-mouthed girl I met on the train—the one I used to write in about? Her name is Soraya. I knocked her up. Can you believe it? She gave birth to my son a month ago. I’ve trapped her forever, and now she’s producing little dark-haired, Italian Morgans. I have a son, Ida. A son! Thus, the shit on my forehead right now. Pretty sure it’s from when I changed his diaper a little while ago. Yes, the poop is still there. I haven’t wiped it off yet because…have I mentioned…I’m deliriously happy? I haven’t gotten sleep in six days. SIX DAYS, Ida! I didn’t even know humans could survive on no sleep, but apparently you can! I’m proof. You know why it’s all good? Because I’m DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY. On no sleep. There’s one thing, though, that my life is missing. See, Soraya won’t let me make her an honest woman. She thinks she has to lose all this baby weight, fit into a fancy, white dress and walk down an aisle. Our date is set for six months from now, but I just can’t wait another day. I want her to be my wife. I know we don’t need a piece of paper to validate what we have, but I’m selfish. I want it all because I love her so much. So, my question to you is…what can I do to convince her to marry me tomorrow?
--Poopface in Manhattan

Toutefois, à l'instant même ou elle croisa l'avocat, elle retint son souffle, terriblement impressionnée par le charisme indéniable de l'homme. Elle ne manqua pas de voir le regard qu'il lui lança. Avait-elle retenu son attention? Elle l'ignorait et sans fichait comme d'une guigne! Seule lui importait la haine qu'elle lui vouait. Combien d'innocentes victimes comme elle avait-il contribué à enfermer derrière les barreaux d'une prison?

ARMI tous les romans dont la scène est sur mer, qui ont été publiés depuis vingt ans, nous n’en connaissons aucun dont les évolutions des flottes aient été un des traits principaux. Le monde a sous les yeux des scènes admirablement dessinées, dans lesquelles il trouve le tableau des manœuvres d’un vaisseau solitaire, et des touches exquises du caractère des marins ; mais tous les romanciers, semblent s’être soigneusement abstenus de peindre sur un grand cadre la profession de marin. Nous avons nous-même imité leur retenue, peut-être par un certain sentiment intime d’incompétence, mais surtout par suite du désir que nous avions, en décrivant des scènes navales, de rester sous le pavillon auquel nous avons été accoutumé, et auquel, à proprement parler, nous appartenons.
Nous blâmons ouvertement et à haute voix cet absurde patriotisme qui prend feu pour l’honneur des chats et des chiens ; qui s’imagine faire un acte de nationalité en élevant bien haut des objets d’un mérite inférieur, uniquement parce que le hasard veut qu’ils soient de notre pays ; qui affiche la doctrine extravagante, — et si nouvelle dans les annales de la littérature, qu’on n’y trouve une excuse que dans la pauvre explication d’un misérable provincialisme, que le vice, la folie, la vulgarité et l’ignorance, ne doivent pas être un objet de censure quand il s’agit d’un vice, d’une folie, d’une vulgarité et d’une ignorance qui ont pris naissance sur leur sol américain, tandis que ce serait la meilleure raison possible pour que toutes les plumes américaines en écrivissent la condamnation

Je savais que mon heure ne viendrait qu'après déjeuner. En attendant je nageais, je faisais du bateau avec les autres, avec Jean-Pierre.

Et comme Marie Calumet lui faisait remarquer que ses vêtements étaient humides:
- Ah! oué, c'est vrai, dit-il, je me suis mouillé les pieds à Lachine.